


Mycroft Holmes and the Trivium Protocol

by Rector



Series: Cate and Mycroft Stories [3]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Adventure, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-19 23:57:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 60,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rector/pseuds/Rector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A romance. Desire, danger and death. International mayhem; romantic conspiracy and outrageous fortune. A Cate and Mycroft story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> This narrative is third in a series. It will likely improve the reading experience if you try the episodes in their chronological order:
> 
> (i) The Education of Mycroft Holmes 
> 
> (ii) Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree

**Acknowledgement:**

This is a non-profit indulgence based upon characterisations developed by Messrs. Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson for the BBC series _Sherlock_. The character of Mycroft has been brought to life through the acting skills of Mr. Gatiss. No transgression of copyright or licence is intended.

#

#

#

**Mycroft Holmes and the Trivium Protocol**

_Back to School – Setting Events in Motion – Death of a Friend – Level Two, Active – Fraudulent Behaviour – An Unwelcome Bequest – The Union Bar – Lethal Choreography – Maurauder – Summer Thunder._

_#_

_#_

It hadn't taken very long to disencumber herself from the trappings of Deanship. Sighing quietly as the last box of papers was sealed up and bundled off towards its new home, Cate looked around her old familiar office in Gower Street and decided she needed some fresh colour and new art. Also, her desktop computer had seen better days; her laptop hadn't been the same since Bilbao, and her books were all getting just that little bit ragged. Looking at the rusty-coloured matting, Cate made a face. The carpet in here could do with a really good clean too. In fact, the entire office could do with a complete facelift. Opening one of the long windows overlooking Tavistock Square, Cate welcomed the cool, fresh breeze that flapped the blinds softly against the window frame. It was time for something new. New challenges, new students, new ideas.

And only one way to get things moving. Lining up a couple of empty boxes on her desk, Cate turned first to her books. Taking down only those she wanted to keep, she quickly filled the two and then added two more cardboard containers. But the rest of the shelves could go: she wanted space for fresh philosophies and unmarked thoughts.

Phoning down to the main student lounge, Cate advised she had a pile of texts going begging if someone would come and get them; otherwise, they would end up at the nearest charity shop. Receiving a promise that someone with a trolley would be up within the hour to collect anything she felt like donating to the student shelves, Cate also added all but one of her pieces of art to the pile. Though the office now looked a real mess, it also looked like a good beginning: nothing better than a little upheaval to make life interesting.

On the phone again, Cate asked the Premises people if she could arrange a particular cleaning for her office over the next day or so, citing all the recent changes. She'd be quite happy to offset any additional cleaning charges that might occur. Apparently, that wouldn't be a problem either: it would be done overnight, and, as long as she could clear out anything she wanted gone before she left for the day, the cleaning staff would cart away whatever else she wanted disposed of. _Too easy_ , she thought, flicking through a somewhat ratty old copy of Barthes' _Mythologies_. She returned it to the nearest shelf.

A knock at her office door was followed by a head and shoulders curling around the doorframe.

"You called, Professor?"

Smiling as she recognised the voice and face, Cate lifted her eyebrows. Erik Norling looked about as Swedish as anyone could get, yet his broad London accent gave a clear indication of his birthright.

"You still here?" she asked. "Thought you were supposed to have graduated last semester?"

"Just taking an extra couple of courses to fatten up my application to Yale in the Spring,"

"And what's wrong with Cambridge?" Cate folded her arms and looked reproving. She had already advised Erik to try for Clare Hall, her old alma mater, "British not good enough for you, _hmm_?"

"It's dad," Erik shrugged. "You _know_ he's got this thing about the States being the best place to do the corporate-finance stuff."

A faint image of a fierce, balding man danced on the edge of her memory. Cate vaguely recalled meeting Norling Senior at some student-welcome event. As Cockney as could be, Cate also remembered a surprisingly glamorous blonde wife – no guesses where Erik got his looks.

" _Hi_ ," A second head peered around her door. This one much smaller, equally attractive, and as dark as Erik was fair.

"This is Medina," Erik grinned.

"New girlfriend?" Cate perched on the edge of her desk. "Hello, Medina," she waved. "What are you doing hanging out with this wretched specimen?"

Stepping fully into Cate's office, Erik's companion looked shy.

"Hello Professor," she spoke softly as if worried a normal voice might cause offence. "Erik is my friend; he's helping me settle into the dorm."

Realising this was a new student and by the sound of it, not yet one of young Norling's conquests, Cate sent Erik a sharp glance.

"Are you going to be in any of my classes?" she asked, narrowing her eyes in a meaningful way as she gave the young Londoner a very old-fashioned look. In the epitome of innocence, Erik, feeling unfairly accused by Cate's stare, gave a theatrically extravagant shrug, waving his hands silently in the air as if claiming no part in his pretty companion's situation.

"I have enrolled to study a Master's degree with you by thesis," Medina smiled a little uncertainly. "I believe I am to meet with you in three days' time to discuss this."

"I haven't had an opportunity to check my meeting-schedule yet, Medina," Cate smiled at the dainty creature. "You're very likely correct."

"And in the meantime, Prof," Norling rested his hands on his hips. "You have some books you want to get rid of, yes?"

"And there they all are," Cate gestured to everything still on her shelves. "Help yourself to everything on that wall."

"You are giving away all this knowledge?" the girl looked surprised.

"A book is only knowledge if it has a reader," Cate said. "Far better it be in a student's pocket than on my shelf."

"You are very generous, Professor Adin-Holmes," Medina smiled.

"Don't be fooled, Medina," Erik looked sage beyond his years. "The Prof is as tough as old boots and is probably giving all these away to check if we can still read."

" _Old boots_?"

"Explain that, if you can," still smiling, Cate ushered the young pair off with the old bones of her library. _God_ : it was good to have all this new space to start afresh. Sitting down at her desk, Cate began typing up a shopping-list. After a few minutes of indulging her inner bookworm, a second issue resurfaced in her head – _ah yes_ – something she'd been meaning to chase up. It was the work of moments to type and send the message.

###

The first part of the email had asked her for advice on a new laptop. Apparently, her Boss' wife was following through with the conversation they'd had in Spain, and now Cate was ready to buy. Suggesting something easily off-the-shelf as the Asus Zenbook, Elly Ibarra offered to make a couple of software modifications that Cate would most definitely _not_ be able to source commercially. She had also suggested one or two things Cate could ask the University IT people for if she was getting a new desktop PC in work.

The second part of the email was an altogether different thing. What Cate was asking was … _unusual_. Not illegal, or even terribly difficult, but definitely unusual. There was no immediate hurry for the second detail, but as a slight smile crossed her face, Elly Ibarra shook her head wondering what on earth Mycroft's wife was thinking of doing.

###

There was an unexpected letter for him in the morning's mail. Opening the slim white packet, John learned that one of his old Afghanistan mates, one Sean Lachlan, latterly a Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was dead. Not having kept up much contact with his old oppos since being discharged, John nevertheless felt saddened. He and Sean had been through more than a few hells together. Smiling at an old memory, John recalled that they'd caused a few upsets in their time, too. The smile turned into a grin at the remembrance of one particular night involving two bottles of highly illicit, knocked-off vodka and a bag of party balloons. Pressing his lips together, John reminded himself that on the sands of Kandahar, everyone learned to hang together lest they be hanged alone. And now his friend was dead. The letter gave very few additional details, except to say there would be a brief service at the church of St Giles in the Field on Friday morning. Making a note of the time, John knew he would attend. Everyone should be farewelled by a friend.

###

Seated behind his desk in Whitehall, Mycroft frowned as he re-read the brief report. One of the heirs-apparent to a branch of the ruling family of a small but immensely wealthy Arabic-speaking nation was _enroute_ to London to inspect several of his property investments and to engage in some high-level purchases on behalf of his country's security forces. For anyone who knew anything, such 'purchases' usually meant an arms deal. Oddly, this particular regime usually favoured German suppliers, not British, thus it was intriguing to postulate why there might be a change in the wind, so to speak. Combining the political situation on the Arabian Peninsula with the profound economic wherewithal held by this specific family, Mycroft felt it advisable to keep a few additional tabs on this particular visit. It would not do for any mishap to overtake either the young prince or his princely expense-account.

"Level Two, Active," Mycroft's finger released the intercom button. It was done. The Royal guest would have a watching brief around him every minute he was on British soil. Protectors with sharp eyes and long ears.

###

Cate tasted the sauce. It was rich and fragrant with spices, but not so much that it overpowered the fish; a gorgeous black bream. Putting the vegetables ready to steam, she knew that Mycroft would be home very shortly. They were to have an early dinner as the concert would begin promptly, and she was not going to risk being late.

The sound of a key in the lock made her smile, _perfect_.

"Great timing," she called out at the sounds of a husband arriving home. "Dinner in ten."

A pair of arms wrapped around her middle as Mycroft's lips brushed the back of her neck.

"I could get used to this, you realise," he smiled against her skin. "A wife at home."

Turning in his arms, Cate had him taste the sauce. "I feel a large pinch of salt should be taken with that statement," she grinned. "Do not expect me to be the stay-at-home-wife for at least another twenty years, my love."

Wrapping her in a comprehensive hug, Mycroft Holmes inhaled his wife's perfume, once again cognisant of his good fortune. Cate matched him perfectly: everything about her; mentally, emotionally, physically, suited him. She could cook, too, although now was perhaps not the best time to share that particular observation.

"What time's the concert start?" he asked, checking.

"Set for seven-thirty," Cate said, sucking sauce from a thumb. "Why?"

"So I know we have time for this," Mycroft's fingers slid through Cate's hair as he turned her closer to him. "I feel I am being remiss in my husbandly duties." Smiling at her puzzled look. "I haven't kissed you properly since this morning."

Cate's breath caught as his arms drew her gently to his chest and his mouth found hers. For someone so analytical, and so icily controlled, she never failed to be surprised at the romantic streak he had entirely abandoned trying to conceal from her.

"You are such a fraud," she muttered as he ended the kiss. "You play hazardous games with dangerous people, and none of them have the slightest clue your core is pure marshmallow."

Maintaining his smile, Mycroft again touched his lips to hers. If Cate chose to think him better than he was, he would not deliberately spoil the illusion.

"Don't tell anyone," he spoke softly but in a very serious tone. "Or I'll have to have you thrown in the Tower to await my pleasure."

Laughing, Cate raised her eyebrows. "Your pleasure?"

"Oh yes," Mycroft sounded benign. "Definitely my pleasure."

"You'd keep me in the Tower for your own gratification?"

"I dare say you'd not find the ordeal unbearable," he suggested dryly. He smiled again at her mildly scandalised look.

"But it would be for your pleasure?" she turned closer in his arms, her fingertips resting along his jaw.

"I'd make certain of it _._ "

At Mycroft's laughing expression, Cate was contemplative.

"Though charming," she prodded him, reproachfully, "you are a manifestly decadent man, Mycroft Holmes," she touched his cheek with gentle fingers, a soft look on her face.

"I am a British gentleman," he observed quietly, meticulously kissing each of her fingertips. "This means I am, by nature, both charming _and_ decadent."

Struggling to keep her expression straight, Cate couldn't avoid a grin. " _Fraud_."

Pulling her tight against him once again, Mycroft smiled into her hair. "Remember the Tower."

The concert was Górecki's _Symphony of Sorrowful Songs_. One of Cate's favourites, the devastatingly plaintive holocaust lament cleansing all thought save that of the underlying meaning of the music and the ability of humanity to both destroy and redeem itself. Brilliantly orchestrated and performed, Mycroft found his wife unusually quiet on the return journey.

"Too sad?" he asked, gathering her hand into his.

"Too lovely," she sighed, leaning against his side. "I am never able to understand how such horror can beget such beauty."

Acknowledging to himself that this was frequently the way of things, Mycroft reflected upon his own role. Sometimes he was fortunate to witness the beauty of his country: the magnificence of an heroic gesture; the profound nature of individual sacrifice. More often though, he was called upon to deal with the meaner elements of the world: the cruelties and unfair realities. And yes: the horrors, too.

Tightening his grasp on Cate's hand, he pulled her closer to him, his arm falling easily around her shoulders. At least he could keep her safe.

###

The cleaners had done a good job, Cate noted, peering around. The place smelled fresher, the shelves were shining; the windows gleamed, even the marks left on the walls by her old art had been removed. The office was as pristine as it was likely to be. But now that she could see the actual walls, Cate realised it wasn't simply the old dust that had bothered her but the colour, too. Knowing any request to Premises for a re-paint would be met, at best, with an offer of the same colour or, more likely, some loud and extended scoffing noises, Cate decided if she wanted anything changed, she'd better do it herself. Realising the University authorities would have a fit if she told them what she really wanted; instead, she found the nearest paint-shop and rang them. Yes, they had those colours. Yes, they could deliver them this morning; roller and brushes as well? Not a problem. Payment by VISA? _Fantastic_. In less than ten minutes, Cate had organised a repaint of her office – it wouldn't be the first time she'd taken such matters into her own hands. She smiled. This was more like it.

In fact, as she looked at her watch later, the whole task had taken less than two-hours. Wrapping up the roller and disposable brushes in the cheap plastic drop-cloths, she stared around. From being a clean, though utterly boring university office only two hours prior, Cate smiled at her new beachside den. With two walls in a gentle green-grey wash and the other two in a cool, soft ocean-blue, the sandy-coloured Jute carpet blended into the gleaming off-white window and doorframes. It was already nearly dry. All she needed was a couple of new chairs and it would be a perfect place for contemplation and relaxed discussion.

Cate wondered how long it would be before Premises discovered her misdemeanour and took steps to correct it. Last time it had been nearly a year.

###

 _It always seemed to rain for funerals_ , John thought, as he stood uncomfortably at the back of the little church. There were only a handful of people in attendance: using Sherlock's methods, he'd worked out that the older woman at the front was not Sean's mother but probably an aunt or older cousin. One of the men near the front looked too young to have served as a contemporary to either he or Sean, but given the severe haircut and stiff stance, was likely a regimental representative. There were a couple of other unknowns present, including an odd-looking heavy across the aisle from himself. This guy looked like trouble: a nose that had been broken more than once, a visible scar above the left eye and what appeared to be a dent in the left cheekbone. Not the sort of man you'd want against you in a pub-fight, perhaps. Perhaps aware of John's scrutiny, the man turned his head in a stare that held no warmth whatsoever. Offering an amiable flicker of a smile, John returned his attention to the Vicar at the front.

In a very short space of time, it was all over. Sean's coffin was whisked away to the crematorium; Sean's aunty was assisted out the door by the young regimental subaltern, and the remaining few mourners headed for the main door at the rear. Letting everyone precede him, John emerged into the grey morning where a hint of sunlight glowed between the dark buildings surrounding the old church.

John sensed another person standing very close behind him. Turning, he saw the dark face of the man who'd stared at him inside. If the face had been unfriendly then, it was distinctly unpleasant now. Feeling his heart pick up speed, John slid his hands out of his jacket pockets. Just in case.

"Your name Watson?" the heavy asked. " _John_ Watson?"

Breathing evenly, John looked calmly into a pair of mildly bloodshot eyes. Incipient liver damage by the looks of it, the doctor in him couldn't help but notice.

" _Maybe_ ," he said. "Who wants to know?"

"Friends of the departed," the man spoke softly.

"What kind of friends?"

"The kind of friends what wants their money back, is what," folding his arms, the man assumed a more stand-over position.

" _Money_?" John frowned.

"Money what is owed by the departed," Heavy nodded. "And what was stood guarantee for by one Dr John Watson."

He'd stood guarantor for a loan for Sean? Racking his brain, John thought back and back … There _was_ something. A vague memory of papers being signed. But it was years ago. He'd almost completely forgotten about it. If Sean had taken out a loan back then, it couldn't have been much as neither of them were earning a lot, and he'd probably have mostly paid it off in any case.

"Yeah, maybe," John nodded. "Captain Lachlan owed you money?"

"Not me, my employer," Heavy pointed out. "And my employer cordially requests that Dr John Watson meets his obligations." Reaching out, Heavy gave John a thin brown envelope as he began to walk away. "No rush," the man said, a semi-smile vanishing as soon as it appeared. "Got until the end of the month."

Watching the man leave, John slid his thumb beneath the flap, opening it to remove the single strip of paper inside. It was his signature, alright. Next to an amount. His heart stopped.

 _Twenty thousand pounds_.

He was guarantor for a loan of twenty grand. And he had until the end of the month to pay it.

###

"No," Medina was quite firm. "It is not possible for me to go to one of those places."

Erik Norling shook his head. He'd hardly consider a Union Bar one of 'those' places.

"But it's where everyone goes to have fun," he said. "It's a meeting-place for students, is all."

"But there is alcohol there," Medina was unflustered. "My religion does not approve of drinking alcohol."

"You don't have to drink alcohol," Erik made a face. "I don't drink hardly ever."

"You abstain from drinking?" Medina looked curious.

" _Yeah_ ," Erik shrugged. "It doesn't agree with me, more's the pity." He sounded optimistic. "Will you come?"

"As long as there is fruit juice to drink, and you are not touching alcohol, I will be happy to come with you," with her pretty features alight with adventure, Erik Norling smiled at his new companion. He'd better make sure none of the bad boys took a fancy to this little bird.

###

Moving the two rich tobacco-coloured leather chairs into several different locations, Cate finally settle upon a pleasing layout. She was content: a number of physical changes had been successfully carried off in only a few days; she was well on the way to settling back into her old job; her new students looked like an interesting bunch, and she'd even taken the extraordinary adult step of ordering a new laptop. After removing all her personal files and reformatting the hard drives, Cate had offered the old one to Student Services in case anyone needed parts. They weren't terribly impressed with it, she felt, but still.

Most of her new books had been delivered as well, and the luxurious scent of virgin paper filled her office. She'd replaced a good number of her old texts, and had indulged herself with an excessive splurge into several new authors, as well as diving deeper into the lives and loves of some of her more established favourites. There was a whole group of new theorists she'd wanted to get to grips with as well: mentally she rubbed her hands in delight. That the University was actually paying her to do this was sometimes still hard to believe.

There was one other major thing she wanted to get moving. Always active, Cate had fretted since she'd given up the more … _physical_ part of her dancing, although she acknowledged in hindsight it was a probably a sensible decision. However, she was becoming a little jaded with _sensible_ , and craved something a bit more on the questionable side. She'd already told Mycroft she was getting into Hapkido, and she was: she'd even had bought herself a set of white pants and jacket for the classes she was due to begin this afternoon. But she was also on the lookout for something a little less _legitimate_. When she'd announced she was fed up with being grabbed by anyone who felt they could, she was speaking the literal truth, but not the _entire_ truth. Knowing how to use the complex Korean art would be a great place to begin her defence: but what she actually wanted to learn was how to _fight_. The events in Spain had made it very clear that if she wasn't able to look after herself, then nobody was. She didn't expect Mycroft to be around all the time, no matter his old-fashioned, though rather sweet idea that she was apparently to be located in the box marked 'The Gentle Sex'.

In fact, sitting down with all the other newbies in the dojo, Cate wondered if she could maintain interest in these classes long to set up a reasonable alibi for what she planned would be her real activity. Knowing full well that Mycroft would not be best pleased if – or, being realistic, more like _when_ – he found out what she was up to, Cate hoped that, by the time he discovered her small _peccadillo_ , it would be too late for him to complain. And, if she was really careful, it might never even be an issue.

Listless, she looked around. All anyone was doing in this group was learning to fall and roll, and she'd been doing that for twenty years, starting back when, as an undergrad at Clare College, she and several of her mad friends volunteered to make some parachute jumps for a charity gig. The jumps themselves hadn't been anything terribly frightening: one each at five, seven and finally at ten thousand feet. No: that had been relatively simple; the static line doing all the hard work as she flung herself out the gaping side of the turboprop Cessna. What had been the _real_ problem; the thing that had given her bruises for over a week, had been the landings and falls. Damn those RAF trainers: Cate shook her head at the memory. She had jumped from increasingly intimidating heights onto hard mats for two days, over and over again, before they would even allow her to try on a parachute. It had been the most wonderful fun. She smiled a private smile. The Flying Officer in charge of their training had been quite a lot of fun too.

When it was her turn on the dojo floor, Cate dutifully demonstrated the star-leaps, the falls, and then the rolls. A little old Asian man, pretty much the same height as herself, came up to her and indicated she should do them again, so she did, bouncing easily up at the other side. Frowning, he made it clear he wanted her to do the same thing again, but faster, and with a slight shrug, she did. Looking at her carefully, he gently took her hand and led her around in a short circle. Before Cate realised what he had planned, she found herself being pitched smoothly into a forward summersault which would have had her flat on the ground had she not been able to transition easily into a forward roll and propel herself immediately upwards. Turning to look more closely at the old man, Cate gave him a suspicious stare.

"See if you can avoid my hand," he said, coming to stand in front of her.

"Avoid your hand?" Cate looked at both his hands: they were by his sides.

"Dodge," he said, swiftly thrusting out an arm, the points of his fingers stopping millimetres from Cate's shoulder.

"Oh, _dodge_?" Cate nodded. She rose slightly on her bare toes, her eyes wary for the slightest movement.

Fast as a snake, the old man stabbed out a hand at waist-level. Cate sucked herself in and bent like a reed.

The next strike was at her opposing shoulder. Arching herself backwards diagonally, Cate had to muster a one-handed backwards flip to avoid falling. She regained the vertical slowly, waiting for the next attack.

Smiling slightly, the man took a firmer stance, bracing his legs. To Cate, this spoke of a longer offensive: he was going to go for multiple strikes this time. Breathing slowly, she focused on his hands and relaxed, waiting.

The first hit was aimed at her shoulder, and she twisted easily away. Immediately, a second hand shot out at the other shoulder, and again, she twisted out of reach. The third strike was a kick to her thigh which pushed her off-balance and onto her bottom with a thud.

"You said avoid your hands!" she complained, back on her toes, already waiting for the next strike.

"I lied," the old man grinned. Standing upright, he bowed. "Come with me," he said, beckoning.

Leading Cate over to a smaller group, he told her to sit and watch. This group wore different coloured belts, she noticed, unlike her own which was plain white. They were pairing up and taking turns at grabbing each other's wrist, and stepping up and inside the arm, forcing their opponent into stillness, before rolling the hold smoothly over into a forward throw.

It looked a little complicated.

"Try the first part," the old man suggested, "here." Beckoning another woman across, he demonstrated what he wanted Cate to do. Smiling, the woman nodded easily.

It took her a couple of attempts, but on the third go, Cate realised exactly the right way to curve and twist up under her opponent's defence, while locking down on her wrist. She had absolutely no intention of following-through with the forward throw, when she realised she already had.

" _Oh, God_ ," Cate looked down embarrassed, at the woman sitting on the mat. " _Sorry_. I hadn't meant to do that."

"It happens," she smiled, accepting Cate's hand up. "Especially when you're in the zone."

"This is my first visit here," Cate shrugged and looked around the dojo. "Quite honestly," she muttered, "I have no clue what I'm doing."

"Your first visit and Kwan's already got you into throws?" The woman looked a little surprised. "You've done this before?"

Shaking her head, Cate looked around for the little Asian man. "Who is he?" she asked.

"Master Kwan? Only the guy who runs this place."

"Never met him before today," Cate shook her head.

"He must like you, in that case," the woman added. "I'm Joanne, by the way," she said, offering her hand.

Shaking it, Cate lifted her eyebrows. " _Cate_ ," she said.

"Here for self-defence?" Joanne asked.

"Self-defence and maybe more," Cate looked at the various activities around the big room. "It depends."

"More than self-defence?" Joanne grinned. " _What_ ," she made her eyes wide. "Combat training?"

Smiling, Cate raised her eyebrows and looked virtuous. Joanne stopped grinning.

"You're not serious?"

"Why not?" Cate watched a man and a woman attempting to rip each other's arms off.

"Only the armed services get that kind of training," Joanne narrowed her eyes. "Anything else is Hollywood."

"Then I wouldn't be able to do it, would I?" Cate smiled and nodded approval as a very large man was thumped to the ground by a boy who looked like a violin bow.

"That kind of fighting is dangerous," Joanne looked concerned, and Cate hastened to reassure her.

"It was a passing idea," she said. "I probably won't be allowed beyond neophyte stage in any case."

"If Kwan's put you in this group, he's trying you out for a red belt." Joanne looked sage.

"Red belt, meaning?" Cate took an interest in the coloured belts around her. There did indeed appear to be a surfeit of red.

"It's second only to black in ranking," Joanne looked peeved. "You sure you haven't done this before?"

"I swear," Cate lifted her hands. "The only thing I've really done a lot of has nothing to do with this."

"And what was it you did a lot of?"

Cate looked slightly embarrassed. "It was a kind of very violent dancing," she said. " _Kind of._ "

" _Ah_ ," Joanne nodded as if something has become clear. "Look around and tell me what you see," she said. "It might help if you hum the sabre dance under your breath," she added.

Cate did. And she saw what Joanne knew she would see.

A great deal of violent dancing. Bursts of lethal choreography. Although perhaps Carl Orff's _O Fortuna_ would be more appropriate backing. Or the shower scene music from _Psycho_.

Turning to her new friend, Cate's smile was sunny.

###

Three luxurious black Daimlers awaited the very private jet as it taxied to a halt at London's City Airport. The group of men debarking the plane shared many similarities: all in their thirties or forties; all dressed in conventional Western business attire, they were exceptionally well turned-out, and were all of Middle-eastern origin. Of the group, one was clearly the leader: a handsome man in an immaculate dark suit, he seemed to be wrapped in an air of authority. He gleamed.

The head of the surveillance team assigned for this particular task ensured that both audio and visual data were being transmitted back to the Ops room in Whitehall. They would miss nothing; not a gesture, not a word. There would already be translators at work on transcripting each and every spoken syllable. Face-recognition software had already identified all but one member of the group: the man located at the leader's right shoulder had not yet been categorised. Mycroft found this vaguely annoying.

"Do we have any idea of the composition of this Emir Talid cohort?" he asked quietly.

"Hassan bin Khalid has been the heir-apparent since 2009, sir," one of his Admins confirmed. "It's possible he's brought his father's military advisor with him for the trip."

A disquieting thought nudged Mycroft's brain. There was a name. It was not a happy name.

"Malik al Badour?"

Turning, the Admin advised they finally had face-recog of the unidentified male. It was indeed Badour.

A bleak expression crossing his features, Mycroft looked sour. Malik al Badour. Politician; General; Warlord. _Marauder_.

" _Level One Active._ " With this man in London, he would take no chances.

###

Back in the sanctity of her quiet room, Medina hung up her jacket, smiling as she hummed the new song she'd learned tonight. It was a strange British song, with words that spoke of hope and glory. But everyone in the student bar had started to sing it at the top of their lungs, so Medina had tried to join in. It had been silly and fun and she had laughed at Erik's really terrible singing.

Her mobile rang. It was probably Erik checking that she was safe in her room, despite the fact that he'd conscientiously escorted her right to the very front door of the women's dormitory. Erik was sweet. She'd never met anyone quite like him before.

Answering her phone, Medina's expression changed dramatically. Her father's voice echoed around her room like the rumble of dry summer thunder. Assuring him she was fine and about to go to sleep, Medina agreed to meet him in the morning at The Dorchester for breakfast.

Ending the conversation with a thoughtful look, Medina bint Malik al Badour wondered what her father was doing in London.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_The Bodyguard – Compound Usury – The Connection – Breakfast for Three – Plan C – The Sweetness of Young Love – Embracing Technology – Men With Guns._

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Although it was early, Erik Norling was already waiting outside the women's dorm when Medina came out. Still new to London and the Underground system, she had called and asked him for the quickest route from the dorm to the Dorchester Hotel, and he'd offered to act as guide and escort. Since the trip would take less than twenty minutes all up, Erik reasoned that he might as well get the exercise and take the opportunity to get to know her a little better.

He liked her. Medina was different from the other girls he knew. He'd never known anyone before who not only wouldn't drink and who insisted on acting in every situation as if propriety was the highest accolade anyone could imagine; but who always told the literal truth in such a way that made him laugh. It was as if she was having a series of personal conversations with her inner Nanna. Medina was so old-school, she made him look twice at his own assumptions about lots of stuff. And that was another thing: even when she was being entirely serious, she still made him laugh. He liked her. He liked her a lot.

Running down the wide steps outside her hall of residence, Medina spotted the white-blonde head perched above the striped purple-and-sky-blue university scarf he wore endlessly. She smiled. He was a really nice boy, although at home, she'd had little experience with boys of any description. But she was old enough now that her father trusted her to behave with decorum, and he had wanted her to gain some awareness of European behaviour. Completing a Master's degree in London or Paris had been her desire. Grinning at the thin blonde boy waiting for her, Medina was glad she had chosen London.

They smiled at each other.

"Do you know where the Dorchester is?" she asked, as they walked down the road towards the nearest tube station. "I've never been there before."

"It's in Park Lane," Erik nodded easily. "Very posh area. All the nobs stay there," he added. "Who are you meeting?" he asked curiously.

"Looking a shade uncomfortable, Medina looked up into two ice-blue eyes. "My father," she said.

"Your father is staying at the Dorchester?" Erik looked impressed. "Your family is rich?"

Nodding slowly, Medina sounded embarrassed. "Yes," she said. " _Sorry_."

"No need to be sorry about money," Erik shrugged. "My dad is sending me to Yale so that I won't screw up his company when it's my turn to run it."

"Your family has money?" Medina looked a little relieved.

"Dad hasn't given me all the details yet," Erik looked vaguely disinterested. "Apparently we do."

"Then you know what it's like to have to live up to family expectations," she sighed. "In my country, we all do what the head of the family says."

"And your father is saying what, exactly?" Erik didn't know why he was interested, but he was.

"Get my master's degree then come home and get married to a man he wants me to marry."

"Is that what _you_ want to do?"

Medina turned, smiling a little sadly. "It's not a question of what I want to do," she said. "It's what everyone expects me to do."

Then why not just leave home and do whatever it is you choose?" Erik sounded irritated. "Surely your father can't _force_ you to marry someone you don't want to marry?"

"If I left home without my father's blessing," Medina clarified. "I would be dead to my family. I'd never be able to see them again. My sister, my mother, my baby brother. Never."

"Sounds a bit draconian," Erik frowned.

"Yet you are going to another country and a school you do not want to attend because your father wishes it?"

It was Erik's turn to make a face. She was right. _Sort of._

"What will your father say when he sees me?" It was a reasonable question. Medina had already thought of it.

"Would you agree to play a little act for me?" she asked, carefully. "If not," she added, "we had better not be seen together."

"What kind of an act?" Erik sounded doubtful.

"Would you mind pretending to be a bodyguard?"

His shout of laughter surprised her.

" _Me_?" he exclaimed. "A _bodyguard_?" Grinning madly, Erik stopped on the pavement to stare down at the delicate features of his companion. Nobody in their right mind would ever imagine him anything of the sort. Seeing her serious face, he stopped laughing immediately. She was utterly earnest. Exhaling loudly, he shrugged.

"I guess I could," he grinned again. "Though I don't know anyone who'd believe it."

"Do you know how bodyguards are supposed to act?" Medina asked, perfectly sensibly.

Erik thought for a moment about the people his father did business with. They were not always terribly pleasant people. Some of them were downright unpleasant. Some needed bodyguards.

"Oh yeah," he said, quietly. "I know how bodyguards behave."

"Good, then," Medina seemed to have thought the whole thing through. "If you still want to come in and meet my father, then I'll tell him the University has assigned you to be my…" she looked him up and down. He was right: too skinny and young to be a professional bodyguard. "Student Guardian," she nodded. That would do. Her father would approve of that.

"Student Guardian?" Erik wasn't buying it.

"I'll say the University gives all its new students the option of an older student guardian who looks after them for the first semester," she smiled. "But you'll have to behave as if being my guide and guardian angel is a real chore for you."

Lifting his eyebrows, Erik grinned again. "And here was me thinking you were such a good girl," he laughed.

"I am a good girl," Medina grinned back. "But I don't want my father to worry about me or else I may have to return home sooner than I want." Stopping again, she looked back into those palest of pale-blues. "Will you help?"

"Of course I'll help," Erik nodded. "Though you'll have to stop being so nice to me."

"I can do that," Medina laughed.

###

Fortunately, Sherlock was out for the day – analysing relative dye-values in product bar-codes, or something. John had taken little notice of the path home to Baker Street, and now, sipping tea in his favourite chair, his head was still spinning with the idea he was legally responsible for a massive and critical chunk of cash. Massive, because these days his biggest financial investment tended to be, at best, a warm jacket; _critical_ , simply because he didn't have it. _Where in hell's name was he going to find twenty grand in less than three weeks?_ Even if he gave up sleep and locum'd every hour he could get, he'd not be able to earn that kind of money. Taking a deep breath, he listed the key problems in making the payment. Point one: he had nothing of any value worth selling. Point two, going to the banks for a loan would have him laughed successively out of their offices. Point three, no loan company would touch him without Point one. He couldn't go to Harry – she'd long ago drunk her way through any potential savings. He couldn't ask Sherlock, because … well. _Because_. Besides, the likelihood of Sherlock having that kind of money just lying around was about on par with there really being a Santa. He didn't know anyone else who, one; had that kind of cash, and who, two, would lend it to him. He was stumped. If he couldn't get the cash, then he'd have to try and renegotiate the loan; maybe see if he could get the term extended or something.

There was a mobile number on the back of the slip of paper he'd taken from the envelope. Digging out his phone he took a deep breath and keyed the digits.

"Bow Bells Finance," a woman's voice answered.

Clearing his throat, John asked to speak with someone about changing the payments on a loan. After a few seconds uncomfortable silence, the woman advised she was putting him through to the manager.

"You want to change payments _how_?" an aggressive male voice demanded. Clearly this particular _manager_ hadn't attended charm school. John got the distinct feeling there might be a more physical edge to this company's method of coping with bad debt.

"Well I have a bit of a problem," he said amiably. "I just found out this morning that a loan my friend, my now _dead_ friend, took out several years ago, has me down as guarantor, and now you've asked me to pay it back by the end of the month, and there's no way I can do that."

"What's your friend's, your _dead_ friend's name?"

"Sean Lachlan," John cleared his throat. "Captain Sean Lachlan." There was an extended pause. John could hear metal cabinet drawers being slammed closed.

"Twenty big ones, yeah?"

"Er, yes." John nodded to nobody in particular. "It was twenty thousand, yes."

"Due in three weeks, yeah?"

"I believe that was the expectation," John took a deep breath. He hated having to think about money. Especially when he never seemed to have any.

" _Nah_. Can't do it, Mate," the male voice sounded almost conciliatory. "Gotta stick to the rules, see?"

"Surely there must be someone I can speak to," John felt a stir of anger. "You can't just dump this kind of debt on me and expect instant payment. I don't have the money."

"But you're a doctor," the man argued. "All doctors is rollin' in it."

"Not _this_ doctor," John made a face. "I don't work as a doctor."

"What does you work at then?"

"I was recently invalided out of the army," John announced. "I live on my army pension and some occasional locum jobs," he added. "I do not have the kind of money you want."

"What's your number?" the man asked. "I'll see if I can talk to the boss and then maybe we can talk a deal," he said. "Won't be cheap though," he added. "There's the matter of interest, see?"

"What kind of interest?" As John gave his mobile number he started to wonder how long Sean had had this loan.

"Thirty-five percent," angry-voice said. " _Compound_."

" _Thirty-five percent_?" John almost shouted. "That's not interest," he protested. "That's _usury_."

"Them's the rules, Mate," the man said. "It's what you signed for."

And there, John had to admit, he was snookered. He had indeed signed for the loan. It was his responsibility. Somehow, though he had no practical notion of exactly how, he would have to clear up Sean's debt. At thirty-five percent interest. _Compounded_.

Looking up, he realised the sound he'd just heard was Sherlock pounding up the stairs to the flat. John took another deep breath; there was the minor issue of ensuring his friend got no wind of this. At all. _Hey-ho_ , he thought. _This should be fun_.

Breezing in, Sherlock hurled two plastic bags on the table so hard; they skidded off the other side and ended up in the corner near the refrigerator.

"Mental incompetents," he snarled, throwing himself into his own chair.

Leaving his circular cogitations aside, John steepled his fingers. "Who are?" he asked, looking helpful.

"Tesco employees," Sherlock was distinctly unimpressed.

"And what have Tesco staff done to incur your everlasting wrath?" John shook his head. They had probably advised Sherlock it was company policy to pay for things.

"Apparently they didn't like me taking samples of their product barcodes," he muttered. "Droned on and on about privileged information."

"So what did they actually make you do about it?" John could guess.

"I had to buy everything I wanted to sample," his tone suggested the notion was a scandalous waste of taxpayer's money.

"Hence the bags?"

Nodding grumpily. "The bags," Sherlock agreed.

Perhaps all was not lost. Collecting the despised articles, John emptied them out onto the table: perhaps they might at least manage a meal out of Sherlock's efforts.

"Brown shoe polish; unscented fly spray; six different kinds of magazine and about a ton of children's _sweeties_?" Turning to stare at his flatmate, John's voice moved up the tonal scale. "Why on earth would you want to sample six different women's magazines?"

Adopting a superior expression, "paper quality," he muttered.

Dumping everything back into the bags, John returned to his chair, the weight of his new problem reasserting itself. His pensive expression was clearly insufficiently guarded against his friend's inescapable analysis.

"It wasn't _that_ bad," Sherlock commented, watching John's face. "Was it?"

Looking up, John shook his head. "Nothing to do with you," he said, quietly. "Got something on my mind."

Instantly alerted by his friend's choice of words – a method of speech he used only where a serious personal issue was in the wind, Sherlock fixed his entire consideration on John's state.

"Tell me," he demanded.

Lifting his head, John saw Sherlock's look. He knew that look. He sighed internally. It was going to be a long night.

###

Appropriate to a Level One surveillance, information and details came in thick and fast. Mycroft absorbed the data as they arrived.

Hassan bin Khalid's group were now ensconced in several suites at the Dorchester and had been booked for the entire week. Two of the men in the group were bin Khalid's bodyguards, both with known military expertise, deadly combat abilities and sworn loyalties; the others, apart from al Badour, were negotiators and assistants: middle-men. Then there was al Badour himself. Military advisor to bin Khalid's father, it appeared as if his future was becoming cemented with the heir of this particular family branch. Looking as if there was a bad taste in his mouth, Mycroft Holmes digested new information as it appeared on his screen.

There had been a visitor this morning. Two visitors, to be accurate, although the one, apparently, had accompanied the other. A young woman, early to mid-twenties, dark, pretty, clearly of Middle-Eastern origins, had arrived at the hotel in time to breakfast in the suite housing Malik al Badour and guard. Who was this female? Relative? Intermediary? Lover? And what was the relationship between the tall young man who seemingly accompanied her inside al Badour's suite? Who was he? Why was he there? What was his connection to either the girl or al Badour?

Waiting impatiently until face-recog provided at least some answers, the girl's passport information popped up to announce she was Medina bint Escalla bint Aadila; currently an international student in London. _Odd_. Usually a Muslim child took the father's name, but this girl travelled under her mother's family name. This almost never happened unless the father had been disgraced, _or_ … Mycroft gave a short smile and requested information on al Badour's family. Taking only seconds, details appeared advising him that the girl was indeed his eldest, and, by all accounts, al Badour's favourite, daughter. That explained her presence in his suite for breakfast, although it said nothing about her choice of travelling name, unless al Badour himself desired it for her own safety. It was certainly possible.

The young man was Erik Argyll Norling, British citizen, born a true Londoner. Swedish mother. Father, one James Argyll Norling, wealthy London businessman, son of a Scot, grandson of a Swede. Currently the boy was a postgraduate student at London College University … _ah_. Mycroft blinked. _The connection_.

The next piece of information made him inhale a little deeply. Medina, daughter of Escalla, was a registered Masters student in the English department at the University College of London, and ascribed to one Professor Catherine Adin-Holmes. Returning to the young man's details, it seemed he too had been a student of Cate's. Pure coincidence of course, but Mycroft's omniscient antenna gave the faintest of twitches. He had little liking of anything connected with al Badour, and wanted no increase of association between the man and Britain. That Cate was connected to him, even peripherally, gave Mycroft an uneasy sensation. He rubbed the back of his neck. Not only was his antenna pinging, but his muscles had just started to twinge. It might be prudent to have a little word with his wife on this matter. Just to be safe.

###

Leaving the Dorchester, Erik felt that the entire experience he'd just gone through held more than an element of the surreal.

Getting in to meet Medina's father had been simplicity itself, although seeing the guard on sentry-duty outside the suite's entrance had given him a distinctly weird feeling: this was Britain. You just didn't have big men with guns standing around outside hotel doors in London. Not even his father's associates did that. Or maybe they did, and he just hadn't noticed. Erik reflected that perhaps he needed to have a look at a few things a little more closely in the future.

Medina had ignored the guard completely and simply opened the door and walked through. Erik had to undergo a professional search, but it was impersonal and swiftly done. He followed Medina into the suite. A well-dressed man in his late forties looked up, surprise turning to immediate concern. Remembering his role in this little family drama, Erik stood tall just away from the wall behind him, his hands clasped loosely in front. He gave a fractional smile. "Good morning, Sir," he said, nodding briefly.

"And this is Erik somebody," without turning, Medina gestured irritably over her shoulder. "Really, Pappa, the University is being incredibly dreary about me as a new student, almost insisting I accept their guardianship until I am more familiar with the city."

Standing, Medina's father walked slowly towards Erik, his dark eyes not leaving the young man's pale features and unwavering blue gaze.

"The University has asked you to watch over my daughter?" he queried softly.

"Making sure new students, and especially new _female_ students avoid getting themselves into unexpected … problems, is only one of the things the University tries to do, Sir," Erik was formally polite. "Miss Medina has only been in town for a couple of weeks and until the University can be assured of her wellbeing, she has been assigned a temporary angel." He smiled a little more genuinely, placing a hand briefly over his heart, he offered a miniscule bow. "In this instance, myself."

Turning back to his daughter, al Badour looked thoughtful.

"The University has someone watch over you?" he asked. "This seems strange."

"And boring, Pappa," Medina complained. "This … Erik person makes sure I am in class when I should be and that I am escorted home to my dormitory at night."

"Your daughter may choose any angel she wishes, Sir," Erik looked and sounded utterly unimpeachable. "Male or female, although," he paused, smiling slightly, "a female guardian is likely to be more, not less intrusive."

Lifting his eyebrows in consideration, Medina's father nodded. "I am impressed by the University's desire to ensure their students' safety," he said, finally. "Do you accompany my daughter if she attends social engagements?"

"Sir, Miss Medina has not yet established a social calendar, although I did escort her to a University Union bar last night."

A flicker of outrage crossed al Badour's features. "You took my daughter into _a bar_?"

"Yes, Sir," Erik seemed unperturbed. "University Union bars are a primary source of networking among new students, and part of my role is to arrange, when possible, for my charge to be able to meet with likewise new students in a place of safety."

" _A bar_?" Medina's father was still on the edge of anger.

"Sir," Erik looked sheepish. "University bars are not the same as other drinking places," he said calmly. "Many students, like Miss Medina, do not drink, and this was one of the reasons why I was assigned as her angel in the first place, since I do not drink either."

Slightly mollified, al Badour relaxed his shoulders. "You do not drink alcohol?"

"No, Sir," Erik shook his head. "Can't stand the stuff."

"And what did you do in this Union bar last night?" Turning to Medina, his expression was curious.

"I drank pineapple juice, made some new friends and learned the words to a silly British song, Pappa," she said. "Something about hope and glory."

As Medina's father turned to him for an explanation, Erik smiled. "Elgar, Sir," he said. "The choir was practicing for a concert."

"Your choir practices in a _bar_?" al Badour looked sceptical.

"Sir, in all fairness, we are students," Erik smiled and shrugged. "We'll sing anywhere we can."

Looking at the tall young man standing relaxed in his long student jacket and garish, purple-striped scarf; his face as angelic as his claimed purpose, Malik al Badour felt himself relax. There was truth in this room. Smiling inwardly, Medina's father was quite aware that it might not be the entire truth, but he trusted his daughter's integrity, and this young man had not lied to him.

"Very well, Erik somebody," al Badour smiled, becoming the immediate host. "Will you join my daughter and I for breakfast?"

"Delighted, Sir," Erik walked towards a seat, unwinding his scarf. He was actually quite hungry.

And now they were heading back toward the Uni.

"Tell me that wasn't the maddest thing you've ever done," Erik looked down at Medina, walking calmly beside him.

"It wasn't the maddest thing I've ever done," she agreed.

"It wasn't?" Erik was instantly intrigued. "Then what was?"

Laughing, Medina told him.

###

"Tell you what?" John asked, moving into Plan A: Prevarication.

"Tell me what's worrying you," Sherlock pressed. "I know there's something," he said. "The angle of your jaw is approaching ninety-degrees."

"The angle of my jaw tells you I'm worried?" John couldn't help but smile.

"But only intermittently," Sherlock looked knowing. "Or you wouldn't have smiled."

John stopped smiling. "I'm not worried about anything," he lied.

"And that was an outright lie, meaning you consider the problem embarrassing," lifting his eyebrows, Sherlock's eyes narrowed fractionally.

"It's not embarrassing," John sighed. Plan A wasn't going down terribly well.

"Then you definitely _do_ have a problem and it definitely _is_ embarrassing you," Sherlock looked impressed. "Okay, so far so good," he said. "Now would you care to tell me the rest of it of your own volition, or must I play dentist for the next three minutes?" Sherlock looked at John's face. "Two minutes," he amended, still watching. "Possibly one-and-a-half."

John considered moving into Plan B: Outright Denial and Retreat. He knew however, that Sherlock would sit in that chair all night if needs be, working out any and all possible permutations. Even if he vanished to bed _right this second_ , he'd never hear the end of it. Rubbing a hand over his face, John sighed.

 _Just over the minute_ , Sherlock observed. _It was serious, then_.

###

Welcoming Medina and Erik back into her office, Cate smiled at them both. It was not usual for a new research candidate to bring a friend for their first meeting, but neither was it unheard of. Besides, Cate thought, looking at the two of them, there was clearly something rather sweet going on here. If they were happy to be together, she wasn't going to stop them.

"So, Medina," she said. "Talk to me about your research proposal."

Taking a deep breath, the young woman looked Cate in the eye.

"I want to write about the power of cultural narratives to change culture," she rattled out quickly, almost as if she needed to say it fast in case she forgot.

Thinking, Cate looked down at her fingers. "That's a very big topic," she said. Looking up at the girl, "Or are you thinking of articulating this into a PhD after a year?"

With an optimistic expression, Medina nodded slowly. "I had hoped …" she said. "If it were to be possible?"

"Anything's possible, Medina," Cate raised her eyebrows. "Why don't we go through your detailed proposal and see exactly what you've been considering?" Turning to Erik, she looked questioning. "You sure you want to stay for this?" she asked. "Might get a little dull."

Tipping his head towards Medina, his eyes asked her the same question.

"You want me to stay?"

She nodded. He smiled.

"I'll stay," he said.

Looking between them both, Cate smiled again. The sweetness of young love.

###

Cate was at her Hapkido class, so tonight was his turn for dinner. Rolling his neck yet again to relieve the irksome tension that had settled nicely into a dull, cramping ache, Mycroft was not really in the mood for anything extravagant or high-preparation. Deciding on a swift Pilaf, with kidneys, bacon and mushrooms, its rapid cooking time enabled him to check in on the latest al Badour surveillance. Since a Level One surveil was, by its nature, exponential, he needed to ensure his resources were kept in focus on key areas. He had decided Medina bint Malik al Badour fell into that category. The girl's every move would be logged, at least while her father was in Britain. Calling up the latest Intel, Mycroft scowled.

After leaving her father's suite at the Dorchester, both the girl and her youthful male companion had gone directly to Gower Street and into Cate's office. There were even a couple of photographs of the three of them talking around Cate's desk. Of course, the girl Medina was one of Cate's students, thus there was every reason for such a meeting to occur. It simply looked … questionable. Had Cate not been his wife, Mycroft would have ordered her immediate profiling. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. He sighed, rubbing his neck. She'd be home soon. Closing down his computer, he headed into the kitchen.

Dumping her gear in the laundry, Cate breezed into the rear of the house looking for the man of her dreams. Seeing him leaning over the cooktop, she smiled.

"Good day?" she asked, leaning around him to press a gentle kiss to his mouth.

"A day of complexities," Mycroft turned, catching her, bringing her back to him. "I missed you," he murmured, finding her lips again.

About to wrap him up in her arms, Cate stopped as he winced, jerking away.

"What's wrong, darling?"

Looking apologetic, Mycroft rubbed his muscles. "Incredibly sore neck," he winced again, tipping his head back to ease the ache.

"Right then," Cate took charge. Pulling out a chair, she pointed. "Sit." Heading over to one of the drawers, she dug around to unearth a padded rice bag. Whacking it in the microwave, she set it to heat.

"Do not move," she said as he looked about to stand. "Do not even think of moving."

In the main drawing room, she poured a stiff Scotch. Returning to Mycroft, she put it in his hand and fetched the heating pad. Not too hot, Cate eased it gently around the back of his neck, exploring the muscles as she did. They were as hard as rock. No wonder he was in pain. He sighed as the temporary warmth soothed the ache.

Serving dinner in the kitchen for a change, Cate watched him eat, seeing Mycroft's shoulders tense whenever he took a mildly deep breath. His conversation was minimal. She frowned: this was silly.

"You need a massage," she said, finishing her wine and rising to place the dishes in the sink. "I think upstairs would be best."

"It's far too early to go to sleep," Mycroft rolled his shoulders in a vain attempt to put things right.

"Not talking about sleeping," Cate grinned. "I'm going to give you a massage and you need to lie down."

Giving in now that even shaking his head had become too difficult, Mycroft watched her bundle up several large towels inside heavy aluminium foil and put them in the oven.

"Come on, old thing," Cate pulled him up to their bedroom.

Covering the bed with a double-layer of thick towels, Cate turned to face him, looking at his clothes, and appreciating his lean length. Despite the discomfort in his neck, her gaze tempted him. _Dear God_ , he thought. _All it took now was a look_.

"Take your clothes off," she ran a fingertip down the front of his waistcoat, breathing the words against his throat. "I want you naked and on the bed," she grinned provocatively, his pulse quickening as she ran her hand up and along his jaw. "Back in a minute."

The bedroom was sufficiently warm that removing his clothing did not leave him feeling chilly, although lying naked across the towels left him with an unexpectedly exposed sensation.

Returning with a thermal bag and a smaller kit bag, Cate looked at him and smiled.

"On your _front_ , my love," she laughed. Groaning theatrically, he rolled over.

Opening one of the foil-rolled towels, Cate spread it across Mycroft's shoulders and back, tucking a thick roll around his neck. He groaned again, but this time in pleasure as the latent heat soaked into him. Even if this was all she had planned, it would be enough.

Unrolling the small kit bag beside him, Mycroft watched Cate bring out several objects. A small bottle of almost clear liquid, which swirled lucidly: oil of some kind. A small container of cedar and wintergreen balm; a small, strange-looking mechanical device.

"What's that?" he asked, staring at the gadget. It had two small loops on the bottom.

"A vibrator," Cate was grinning: he could hear it in her voice.

"Odd-looking vibrator," he muttered.

"You need to embrace technology, my love," she said. "It's designed for massage," Cate laughed, changing the cooling towel for another hot one. He groaned again. This was not unpleasant.

"Look," she said, kneeling down to the level of his eyes. Mycroft watched as Cate slid the device onto her index and middle-fingers and turned a dial resting on the top of her hand. Immediately, her hand began to vibrate. She ran it across his shoulder: tremors of feeling shimmied across his skin and muscles. It felt … pleasing.

"But this comes later," she said, covering his lower body up in the two towels that had cooled as she applied yet another heated one to his shoulders.

"I may have you do this every night from now on," he mumbled, his shoulders finally beginning to ease in the heat and their relaxed position.

"Hold that thought," Cate grinned. It was going to get worse before it got better. Crawling up onto the bed, she supported her weight with a knee either side of his hips, resting on him. Mycroft rather enjoyed the feeling. He smiled into the towel. This might end up being better than he'd first thought.

Pulling the cooling cover away, Cate poured a little of the viscous oil into her hands, then onto the smooth skin of his back. Spreading it around, she paused.

"Ready?" she asked. "This may be a little uncomfortable to begin with, so I won't worry if you want to complain."

"Holmes men never comp … _argh_ ," he nearly shouted as Cate's fingers found the first of the knots in his shoulders.

Laughing, Cate relented. "That was mean of me," she admitted. "I need to get you warmed up first." Taking a good ten minutes, she rolled, stretched and pulled all the major muscles of his back and shoulders until his skin was pink and warm to the touch.

"Here we go, darling," Cate smiled at the back of his head. "Be brave."

"You sound as if you're contemplating major surgery," the previous ten minutes had lulled Mycroft into an general feeling of ease and warmth.

It was only when Cate used her elbow in an attempt to push one of his muscles out through the front of his shoulder that Mycroft gave in and groaned loudly.

"That's a scalene," Cate muttered, digging in deep. "Nasty little buggers."

" _Sweet Christ_ , woman," Mycroft gritted out through clenched teeth. "I thought massage was supposed to be a gentle, relaxing affair?"

"Oh, it is," she agreed. " _Eventually_." Shifting her weight and stretching her back, Cate took a breather. "Now for the other side," she said, waiting for a storm of protest.

Nothing. Not a peep. Cate checked. "Are you still conscious?"

"It feels … better," Mycroft admitted slowly. "Looser." He sighed, wriggling into a more comfortable position. "Do your worst."

Fortunately, Mycroft's left-hand side wasn't as tense as the right had been, thus Cate's ministrations were a little briefer and less invasive, although she managed to get a couple of quite reasonable yelps out of him before she felt the job was properly done.

"Now the soft and gentle part," she whispered close to his ear as she fitted the massager over her fingers. Turning it to high, she ran her hand in slow strokes down and across his shoulders and down from the back of his head. As each sweep affected the newly-relaxed muscles, Cate could see them quiver softly and fall back into rest.

"Nice?"

Mycroft was barely audible, "don't stop," he muttered. "Please."

Continuing the stroking for several more minutes, Cate eventually laid the vibrator aside, reaching for the cedar balm.

"This may feel a little warm at first," she said, "but it'll go in a minute or so." With a gentle, circular movement, Cate rubbed some of the fragrantly woody unguent into the lines of Mycroft's neck, along the crest of his shoulders and down towards his spine.

Wiping her hands, Cate felt it was a job well done. From a distressed, pain-ridden and unhappy man, she had produced a warm, quivering lump of husband.

"Are you still with me?" she laughed.

" _Mmm_ ," slowly stretching, Mycroft resurfaced, blinking. " _That_ ," he said, "was an experience." Rolling onto his back, he looked at Cate's pleased face. "Where on earth did you learn how to do that?"

"You forget I worked with dancers and all manner of crazy physical people for a long time before you and I met," she said, leaning down to kiss him. "Knowledge of massage is a prerequisite in such circles." Lifting herself away from him "Now you should get into some pyjamas and stay warm to get the best out of this," Cate began packing away the detritus.

Mycroft's arms pulled her back against his chest as he lay on the towels.

"I feel the need to first demonstrate some form of appreciation," he said, nibbling her neck.

"And what form of appreciation did you have in mind?" Cate smiled, looping her arms behind his head and stretching herself down along his body.

" _Firstly_ ," Mycroft's fingers were at the buttons of her blouse. "One of us is definitely overdressed," he murmured, kissing her throat and along her clavicle. "And secondly," he announced, twisting his arm behind him, and, grasping the vibrator, slid it onto his fingers. He turned the dial to high. "I have decided to embrace technology," his smile was entirely sinful.

###

At breakfast, curling his fingers through Cate's shining hair, Mycroft kissed her good morning, gathering her up into a spontaneous hug. He couldn't help himself any more: she was as necessary to him as air. He had slept like a dead man and awoken as fresh as the proverbial daisy. Now he wanted coffee, but there was also the matter of Cate's connection to al Badour's daughter. He sighed. He already knew Cate was not going to like what he needed to say, but it was unavoidable. It couldn't be put off any longer.

"Darling," he began, waiting until he had her full attention. "There is an issue with one of your students."

Looking puzzled, Cate tipped her head, waiting.

"Medina bint Malik al Badour," he said.

"I have a new Master's student called Medina," Cate agreed, "but her name's not 'bint Malik al Badour'."

"Yes," Mycroft said gently. "It is."

Looking even more puzzled, Cate frowned. "How are you involved with Medina, assuming it is actually the same student?"

"Sorry darling," he paused. "I'm not able to give you the details," Mycroft stared into his coffee. "You need to find her another supervisor. Possibly a different university."

Cate's expression moved into concern. "Why?"

Another pause. "I can't tell you that, either," Mycroft's gaze was unruffled. "Can you simply accept that I say this for the very best of reasons?"

Pushing her own coffee aside, Cate linked her fingers and stared down at the kitchen table. She considered his request.

Pinching her lips together, she looked at him. "No, Mycroft," she shook her head slowly. "I don't think I can do that."

He put his cup down. "I'm sorry, my love," his expression was serious. "I'm afraid I have to insist."

Taking a deep breath, Cate stood. "You may insist all you wish," she said softly, walking over to him. "But I will not mess around with the academic future of a vulnerable young student simply because you say so." Looking directly into his eyes, she rested a hand on his chest.

"Tell me why," she said. "Give me a good reason."

Scanning her face, Mycroft could see Cate wanted no argument with him, but he could not share his knowledge with her. Nothing associated with a Level One operation was able to enter a public domain. _Nothing_. He had instituted the rule himself. Even mentioning Medina's real name might have been a mistake.

"I can't, darling," his voice made Cate ache.

"Neither can I," she replied, her words equally soft. Hesitant, she asked. "What happens now?"

"Now MI5 get involved."

Disbelievingly, Cate choked. "Men with guns?"

Desperate to pull her close to him, to tell her everything would be all right, Mycroft did neither. Instead, he nodded.

 _Men with guns_.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_The Burden of Atlas – I Will Do This – The Botheration of Mycroft – An Agreement Between Gentlemen – Followed – A Meeting is Arranged – The Flight of the Doves – Death in Egypt – Hors de Combat – No Argument._

#

#

Staring at his friend from under his brows, Sherlock sighed. It was annoying having to respect John's boundaries when it was as clear as day his problem was money-related, involving a third-party unable to speak for themselves; that the demand was excessive, yet he felt obligated, _ergo_ it was some agreement he'd made on another's behalf and now was being called upon to meet. All John needed to say was that he had a big debt to pay, and that would be the end of it. _But no_ : apparently his misguided sense of honour and fair play meant that he would carry this thing around like the burden of Atlas. Sherlock only needed to borrow John's phone for a few moments and the entire sorry affair would become clear. Doing his best impression of reading, he waited for an opportunity.

John was fairly convinced he had put Sherlock off the scent: he'd casually mentioned needing to find some ongoing kind of employment and his flatmate had fallen silent. _Job done, then_. Now all he had to do was find some way of making the payments. He opened the paper at the employment pages. Better start looking.

###

Doing what she usually did when she was upset or bad-tempered, before heading to the university this morning, Cate sought a physical release. Wrenching her white belt tight with an angry yank, she crossed the dojo floor, heading to the side mats for a warm-up. Stretching until everything felt relaxed and loose, she started her warm-up with kicks and rolls. Finding a free practice-dummy, she started jabbing, her strikes increasingly vicious, each one accompanied by a grunt of effort. It was only when Kwan stood beside her wearing a concerned look that she realised she'd been making a bit of noise.

"You have a problem, Cate?"

"I am in a bad mood, Master Kwan," she looked sheepish. "Sorry if I was being too loud."

"Loud does not mean bad," he paused, "and if it removes anger, then there is purpose to it."

Looking at the old Korean with laughter in her face. "Are you being inscrutable?" she asked.

"Indeed, I attempt to be," Kwan winked and grinned. "Come with me," he said. "I have something for you."

Leaving the practice mats, Cate tagged along as Kwan walked over to a bureau desk in a small office-type space in a remote corner of the room.

"Here," he said, handing her a red belt. "Try this on."

Cate was seriously surprised. She'd accepted that, as a novice, she'd have to work her way through the ranks of skill. She had no expectation of anything beyond a white belt for at least the foreseeable future.

"I don't think I'm ready for this," she ran the sash through her fingers.

Making her jump with a burst of laughter, Kwan nodded in understanding. "You are still a little erratic at moments," he admitted, "but with your existing abilities, and the way you have taken very naturally to the new skills of the discipline, you are easily competent in all the defence forms you have tried."

"But that sort of defence is rarely more than blocking or getting out of the way and letting the other person fall over through their own momentum," Cate frowned. "It's not a complex concept."

Kwan looked smug. "And your bongsul is improving steadily?"

Now Cate's turn to grin: she'd taken to the use of the short fighting sticks with real enthusiasm. A cross between a diminutive long-staff and a wooden sword, the tahn bong, at only a couple of feet in length, enabled her to capitalise on her previous experience of an entire season learning how to dance with two heavy clubs. Compared to that, the lightweight bongsul were child's play. All she needed was some thunderous music, and she'd choreograph a fighting dance with them. It would be fun.

Observing her pleased look, Kwan nodded. "And yet you do not consider yourself ready for red?"

Wrinkling her nose, Cate made a face. "I haven't done the kyuk pha yet."

"This worries you." Kwan nodded again. "For some reason, the thought of having to break a piece of wood always worries women more than anything else," he said. "Do you think you are weaker than these men?" he asked, gesturing around the room. "Or that only brute strength is required to complete this task?"

Inhaling slowly, Cate knew he was right. It wasn't just about brute force, but the belief that sufficient force was available and any pain could be overcome. It was a both a physical and mental challenge. Thinking about it, Cate made up her mind.

"I want to do it today," she said. "I want to do it now."

Master Kwan looked at her. There was no fear, or even a sign of nervousness on her face. She had reached the place of awareness and was ready for the test. Very well.

"I don't want an audience," Cate said. "I simply want to know I can do this thing."

"Then come with me," Kwan beckoned her with him into one of the empty corridors where it was cool and quiet. "Do you want to warm up before you do this?" he said. "It might help."

"No," Cate shook her head. She had practiced the strike with both her hands and feet. She knew what she needed to do.

Nodding, Master Kwan indicated for her to wait, returning momentarily with two pieces of wood: one was thicker than the other. Cate pointed to the thicker of the two. She would kick first.

Bracing himself close to the ground, Kwan held the wood just off his body, the expression on his face focused and distant. He was waiting for her, now.

This was it. Looking away, Cate breathed sharply, steeling her body in the way she had seen others do, the way she had practiced. With a sudden and dramatic lunge, she powered her entire body through the point of contact in her foot.

It was all over before it sunk in that anything had happened. Cate had no idea if she'd succeeded until she slowly tuned back in to the here-and-now.

Kwan held up the shattered wood. There was a ghost of a smile on his face as he bowed. Picking up the second, thinner piece, again his face took on a distant look as if he were away from his own body.

This was the one Cate had been avoiding. This was the hand-break. She had to be able to do this to complete the test. She could do this. She would.

Again she breathed, building up the focus, holding it … and lashing out.

The stab of agony in her hand was indescribable. Between trying to breathe through the excruciating waves of eye-blurring pain, Cate was sure she'd broken something, maybe several somethings. Kwan was immediately there, checking, pulling her arm gently in his hands, identifying any damage.

"There is no break," he said, relieved. "But you might wish there had been by tomorrow." Turning her wrist very carefully, he inspected everything. "This will swell and bruise."

But Cate wasn't interested in what she couldn't do.

" _Again_ ," she directed. "Other hand."

Kwan shook his head. "That would be foolish."

"Then I'll be foolish," Cate growled. "I _will_ do this."

Searching the adamant set of her features, Kwan lifted his eyebrows in silence. He sighed quietly: better she be rash here, than try it alone. Nodding briefly, he breathed deep and held out the wood, once again entering his own place of focus.

Cate realised what she was risking. Kwan was right: this was madness. Her right hand was throbbing and already swollen. To chance both hands was sheer lunacy. She breathed deep, allowing her thoughts to focus on her pain, on her vexation with Mycroft, on the reason she was here in the first place, on anything that made her angry enough …

With a sharp cry she struck, her punch so hard she was stopped only by Kwan's ribcage.

It was done.

Looking down at her left hand, Cate was stunned. There wasn't a mark on it: it wasn't even reddened by the blow. There was no pain, no soreness. She held it up, wiggling her fingers in amazement.

Master Kwan laughed softly. "Are you ready for a red belt now?" he asked, lifting her right hand up for another view. "This needs to be iced."

"Thank God I'm a Southpaw," she smiled.

"There is one additional part of the test you have not yet completed, however," Kwan looked serious.

" _What_?" Cate was horrified. She had done everything: the self-defence, the combat, the sticks and now the breaking. What had she missed?

Unable to maintain a straight face, Kwan grinned. "You have to write me a four-page essay," he laughed.

"Only four pages?" Cate was weak with relief. "Master Kwan," she grinned back. "I'll write you a _book_."

###

Mycroft was bothered. A small, localised _coup_ in the Sudan had removed one of Britain's oldest allies. An explosion in Kazakhstan had levelled a government office, killing a British diplomatic envoy and setting off a flood of accusations and inevitable paperwork. A minibus of Newcastle backpackers had been arrested north-east of Cape Town, accused of attempting to smuggle illicit diamonds. A shipment of Chinese heroin had been located enroute to a children's hospital in Cardiff, and seven Russian cultural attachés had gone down with apparent food-poisoning in a roadside services café on the M3. Quite what seven Russians were doing there in the first place, was unknown, but odds were it was not something with which the British security services would be entirely delighted. On top of all this, there was the visit and potential arms deal of bin Khalid and his little troupe; and then there was Malik al Badour, and all that was entailed by his current presence in Britain. There was also the matter of al Badour's daughter and her youthful companion.

Yet, it was none of these things that unsettled him, but the possibility and even the likelihood that Cate might somehow be dragged into the al Badour morass. Her attitude at breakfast had been unhelpful, although he had half expected her to resist his request. If she continued any association with the student Medina, she would inevitably attract MI5's scrutiny. Of course, he could ensure any such enquiry was simply terminated, but lacking an explicit cause, he was loathe to interfere with a perfectly legitimate investigation. On top of this, there was the faint chance al Badour himself might become a factor in Cate's future well-being. And _that_ idea, he realised, he didn't like at all.

Pulling out his Blackberry, Mycroft initiated three, fairly brief, phone conversations. The first was with Charles Shelsher, Vice-Chancellor of the University College of London; the second, with one Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard, and the third was with Donald Parker, Director-General of MI5.

Charles had been puzzled but eventually compliant. From the little information he was willing to divulge, it was clear Mycroft knew people important to the university, and therefore the request he made of Shelsher seemed not unreasonable. It sounded a little inequitable for the student involved, but Charles had been in politics and higher education for more years than he would admit, and recognised battles he could not win. Mycroft ended the conversation with the VC's somewhat reluctant agreement.

Greg Lestrade knew Mycroft of old and immediately demanded to know what game was being played. Since his job-description made no mention of having Mycroft Holmes as his boss, Lestrade took a little more convincing of the need for Mycroft's plan of action. The words 'Civil liberties' featured at least once in their discussion, as did 'just cause' and 'wrongful arrest'.

"Why do you want to get me involved?" Lestrade demanded. "This really isn't my department, and you, Mycroft," he observed. "Are not the person to whom I am accountable."

"Would you like me to remove either of those obstacles?" Mycroft was perfectly obliging.

"You probably could, couldn't you?" Lestrade's experience of both the Holmes brothers reminded him that neither made such offers in jest. "But that's not really the point, is it?"

"Inspector," Mycroft sighed. "I would like your assistance in this small matter. Are you willing to help; yes or no?"

"You just want me to have the girl picked up and handed over to the visa people at the Home Office? And that's all?" Lestrade double-checked to be absolutely sure.

"That is all."

"Then yes," Lestrade nodded. "I can manage that, although," he added. "It seems a bit rough on the kid."

His chat with Donald Parker was the most … delicate, in that it involved Cate specifically.

"You are surveilling Malik al Badour." Mycroft placed no question-mark at the end of the statement. He knew MI5 were watching al Badour, because his staff had been observing MI5.

" _And_?" Parker and his people had little affection for Mycroft's department.

"My wife, Catherine Adin-Holmes, is a Professor at University College," Mycroft continued. "Medina bint Malik al Badour is one of her students."

"You wife is teaching al Badour's _daughter_?"

"Yes." Mycroft's sounded detached. "The girl is being squired by a young man, one Erik Norling, son of a London businessman."

There was a distinct pause. "And your price for this information?"

"Your people will not harry or interfere with my wife in any way."

"That's a big ask, Holmes," Donald Parker was dubious. "If there's a clear line of investigation …"

"Highly unlikely," Mycroft was peremptory. "You will leave my wife alone."

There was another pause. "Agreed," Parker was begrudging. "Unless we find something directly connecting her to al Badour."

"That is acceptable." Mycroft realised he could expect little more. "Let us hope this situation remains discrete and is self-resolving."

The call ended. Not quite a gentleman's agreement, but better than nothing. Now all he had to do, Mycroft realised, was to bring Cate up to speed on the matter. Despite the fact his actions were entirely in her interest, he had a suspicion she would not be easily persuaded of this.

###

"There's that man again," Medina watched a distant reflection in the shop window next to her. "He's been following us all morning."

Grinning, Erik shook his head. "Been reading too many cheap novels?" he teased.

"I'm serious, Erik," she said, glancing in a different window. "We're being followed."

"Okay," he said. "If the guy's really following us, then he'll be easy to spot if we nip down here," he indicated a long, narrow alleyway between two buildings. He shook his head again: the things some girls imagined. They walked quickly to the far end of the alley, looking back just as they turned the corner.

Erik stopped grinning. There was a man standing at the far end; he made no attempt to disguise the fact that he had been watching them. Medina was right. They were being followed.

###

He had appropriated the phone when John had gone to the bathroom. It took less than two seconds to scroll through the 'sent' calls, and he had the number. Sherlock Googled the number to a small finance company based in Stepney. It was the work of a few more seconds to compose and send his own message in John's name. Replacing the phone, Sherlock was back to his book before John had dried his hands.

Scant seconds after John had reopened the paper, his phone signalled a text arrival.

_Meet at Egyptian Room 61, British Museum. 4.30 today._

It was unsigned, but since it had the call-number of the finance company he'd spoken with earlier, John could only imagine he was to meet and speak with someone about Sean's loan. Why the British Museum, though? Odd kind of a place for a business meeting. Oh well.

"Got to head out for a while," John shrugged into his jacket. "I'll get some milk on the way back."

Waving a vaguely disinterested hand in the air, Sherlock was too engrossed in his book to even look up as John left the flat. At the sound of the door closing, he was on his feet and into his coat. Waiting until John walked down into the Baker Street tube-station entrance, Sherlock followed. He would get to the heart of the matter, and do something about it.

###

Resting her right hand in her lap and trying to ignore the hot throbbing pain of it, Cate sat and looked at the two young people in her office. Kwan had bandaged it up very proficiently, but it still hurt like blazes.

"But he was following us, I _swear_."

They had come to Cate's office to go through a rewrite of the central section of Medina's Masters proposal and wanted Cate to give an opinion before doing any further writing. But the conversation had travelled far away from its academic purpose.

Thinking of that morning's conversation with Mycroft, Cate felt a dark cloud approaching. There was only one thing she could do. Looking at Medina, Cate took a breath.

"Is Malik al Badour your father?" she asked.

A startled look of concern washed over the girl's face. "Yes," she nodded. "I travel in my mother's family name because my father is a soldier and involved in important political things at home."

Trying to find the right words, Cate made a face. "I think your father is the reason you are being followed," she said. "I believe you may be in danger in London because of this."

Frowning, Erik stared at her. "How do you know any of this?" he said. "I only met Medina's father this morning."

"Your father is _here_ ," Cate's eyebrows went up. "In London? _Now_?"

"Yes," Medina looked confused. "What is the problem with that?"

Realising this must have been one of the 'details' Mycroft felt unable to share, Cate sat and thought. "If the authorities are watching your father and they know who you are, then they're clearly following you to confirm your connection," she paused, turning to Erik. "You say you saw him this morning?"

He nodded.

"In that case," Cate made another face, "They'll be watching the both of you."

"You haven't answered my question," Erik was almost scowling. "How do you know any of this?"

"I … know someone connected to the security services," Cate prevaricated. Her next words were interrupted by a text arriving on Medina's phone. It made a particularly irritating sound.

"This is a student admin text, it is usually important, one moment please." The girl quickly opened and read down the brief message. Her eyes widening in horror, she turned to Erik, showing him the text.

"The university is excluding me?"

Cate's breathing slowed. Why would Medina get a text from the student administrative department telling her she'd been excluded? Students were only ever excluded after they'd done something dreadful, but she'd known several who'd frolic'd naked across the Chancellery lawn at midday and even then, only receiving a warning. Medina had done nothing. Exclusion made no sense.

If Medina had done nothing worthy of such a punishment, then it was not a punishment for her behaviour, but a deliberate act because of who, or _what_ she was. The university had been perfectly happy to enrol the girl; therefore it couldn't be an academic issue, so it had to be something personal. Medina had enrolled under her mother's name, so any personal information would only cover that side of the family, and anything there would have been known upon the girl's enrolment. Therefore it had to be some recently-discovered information about her father, and that kind of information only came from a few sources. Therefore, if Medina was being excluded, it was because of a decision, high-up. There was only one person Cate could think of with that sort of clout at the University. She swung around to her desk-phone and rang the internal number of the Office of the Vice-Chancellor.

"Hello, Annie," Cate greeted the VC's secretary. "This Is Cate Adin-Holmes, may I speak with Charles if he's free, please?"

A moment later, the rich vowel-sounds of Charles Shelsher echoed down the line.

"Always nice to hear from you, dear Cate," he said. "Still don't understand why you turned the deanship down – is this a change of mind, perhaps?" he asked optimistically.

"Hello, Charles," Cate smiled. The VC was a pleasant enough man, but a born politician and therefore as devious as a fox. "One of my Masters students has been excluded without cause or notice and I think she's going to go to the papers."

Medina and Erik both looked uncomfortable at Cate's statement. Nothing had even been mentioned about what options might be available to them, let alone anything about going to the Press. Frowning, Cate shook her head, waving them into silence.

Clearly Shelsher was unhappy with this news as his voice grew noticeably louder in her ear. His voice was questioning.

"But I don't _know_ , Charles," Cate said. "That's exactly the point: why was Medina excluded? Who signed off on the exclusion? What cause was given?"

There was a brief silence at the other end of the conversation which told Cate what she wanted to know. Someone had told Shelsher to get rid of the girl. That someone had to be powerful enough to not only give the VC a directive, but to ensure any such order would be followed. This further meant those responsible for the directive were connected to the government, which didn't leave too many candidates. It had to be MI5, the Home Office itself … or someone like Mycroft.

Ending the conversation, Cate began to feel rather cross. Whoever was messing around with one of _her_ students better have a bloody good reason.

"Medina," Cate was thoughtful. "I think the same people who've been following you may also be the ones trying to get you out of the university." Looking at the distressed girl, Cate's feelings turned to empathy. This must be awfully upsetting for someone so unworldly.

"I really don't think this is about something you've done," she said, trying to put a positive spin on her words, "but because of who your father is."

"But my father is a soldier and a businessman," Medina was almost in tears, her fingers grasping Erik's sleeve. "Why would the university throw me out because of that?"

"I don't think this decision was the university's to make," Cate spoke slowly. "I think the government has decided it wants you gone."

"But that's not fair!" Erik was angry on Medina's behalf. "How can they do that?"

Sighing, Cate saw that both these young people were about to learn some of life's unpleasant verities.

"No," she said. "It's not fair, but it's the situation we have, and so we must think of how best to deal with it."

"We'll go to my father," Erik was emphatic. "He's really good with sorting out big problems – he'll know how to fix this."

Cate looked at the boy. He meant well. She sighed: her entire arm was aching now.

"You can't do that Erik, unless you want your father to get pulled into this as well," Cate felt weary. "If this is, as I suspect, some government action, then you really don't want to bring anyone into it unless you have no choice."

"But you're in it," Erik retorted. "And you had choice."

Smiling a little at the young man's indignation, Cate shook her head. "I think I was in this the minute I accepted Medina as a student," she said.

"But what should I do?" Medina was lost. "I can't stay in the university residence any more, and if I go to my father, he'll just take me straight home, and I don't want to go home." On the edge of tears, Medina looked across to Erik. He picked up her hand and squeezed it.

"We'll think of a way, won't we, Professor?" There was a hopeful expression on the boy's face as he looked at Cate. She sighed again. Young love had just entered the building.

"If you can't go back to your hall of residence, then you'll need to find somewhere else to stay that's safe." Cate thought for a moment. "Are you sure you can't go to your father?" she asked. "It might be the most sensible thing to do."

Judging by the looks flying between the two of them, Cate saw that _sensible_ was not the first thing on their minds.

"You can't stay with me, unfortunately, because the government already know where I live," Cate paused, realising she was thinking now of Mycroft as _government_. "If you don't want to go home which someone is clearly trying to make you do, and you can't go to your father, then you need to go to an obscure hotel or somewhere equally off the beaten track." Thinking again. "Do you have cash?"

"I have a credit card," Medina pulled out a Platinum VISA card. Erik's eyes popped.

"You can't use any credit cards," Cate was firm. "All transactions can be tracked almost instantly."

Erik looked at her strangely. "How do you know all these things?" he asked. "You seem to know an awful lot about this kind of stuff."

"Don't ask," Cate grinned suddenly.

"I don't have any cash with me," Medina said. "Do you?" she asked, turning to Erik. He shook his head.

"Okay, so no money, can't go home, can't come to my house, can't involve any friends or other family." Cate made a face. "I can think of one place, in that case," she said. Grabbing a scrap of paper, she wrote down an address and some instructions and gave it to Erik.

"This is just in case we get separated," she said, standing. "Get your coats on."

Heading out of the office and down to the lift, Cate gave them some advice.

"Don't use anything that can be traced or tracked," she said. "No mobile phones, no private computers, no credit cards, nothing." Digging into her bag, Cate pulled all the paper cash out of her purse. It was only around a hundred, but better than nothing. Handing it over to Medina, Cate smiled at their woeful faces.

"Remember," Cate said. "You can go to your father any time you like, and you are only taking this road because you're telling me you don't want to go home." They both nodded. Feeling she had to make one last appeal to common sense, Cate looked at them carefully.

"Are you absolutely _positive_ you want to do this?" she said. "You may be making a bad situation worse by running away from it."

"I don't want to go home," Medina was adamant. "If you don't want to help, then I'll manage by myself, Professor."

"I'm not letting her do this by herself," Erik defended his decision.

That was that, then. At least if they kept her in the loop, Cate could hopefully steer them away from the extremes of disaster. Exiting the lift on the ground floor, she shepherded them down the empty corridor. They were nearing the far door, when it opened and two men stepped through. The way the men held themselves, the way they looked. Their expressions. Cate knew what they were. She stopped short.

"Go out the other way," she said quietly to Erik. "Go to the place I wrote down for you."

"What are you going to do?" Erik looked nervous as he watched the two men approaching. His father had men like this working for him. He grabbed Medina's hand and backed away.

"My Great great great Aunt was a Suffragette," Cate turned and gave the two young things a comforting smile. "I'm going to do what she did."

"What did she do?" Medina was barely breathing as she watched the two men coming closer.

"Make trouble," Cate looked quite disposed to emulate her distant relative. " _Run_ ," she added.

Turning back, she smiled as she walked towards the men from MI5.

###

Avoiding the exodus of tourists from the main museum entrance, John made his way quickly along the left-hand side of the ground floor towards the Egyptian collections. Room 61 was labelled 'The Room of Life and Death' which seemed suitably ironic. Festooned with pharoanic history and dramatically obscure hieroglyphs, John strolled past several massive stone sarcophagi into the tomb-chapel of Nebamun. It was gloomy, it was creepy. It was full of ancient dead things. He was the only person in there: everyone else had gone onto more interesting exhibits or simply gone. He waited.

Looking around, John noted the immense thickness of the stone coffins and wondered exactly how anyone could have worked out how to move them. Over to the right of him, he heard an odd flapping noise; like a curtain in a draft. There was also a faint sound of a … _sigh_? It was coming from one of the lesser chests arrayed along the most distant wall of the tomb. Stepping close, John leaned over the open stone box and looked inside.

There was a dead man.

John knew he was dead because living people didn't generally have their throats sliced open like this one did, nor drown in pools of their own blood. The sounds he had heard must have been the corpse settling into its final rictus. Balancing his body on the wide edge of the coffin, John leaned in to check that there was actually an absence of pulse. Trying to locate the carotid artery itself was not easy beneath all the gore, and hunting for a pulse was nigh impossible. The blood was still fairly liquid having not yet entirely cooled. The man couldn't have been dead very long. Seeing him this close up, John realised it was the thug he'd met at Sean's funeral service: the man's dark hair and unshaven features looked barely any worse. Apart from all the blood, of course.

Still balanced on the edge of sarcophagus, his hands liberally coated in the sticky ichor of the recently deceased, John was quietly thankful there had been no other witnesses to this remarkably gory mess, and that he would be able to summon the authorities without the fuss of a screaming audience. Fumbling for his handkerchief, John stood, his blood stained fingers dangling in the air.

It was right about then that the two American tourists walked in. John smiled. It just wasn't his day.

###

Still smiling, Cate waited until the two men were close enough that she actually had a chance to do anything. Seeing her students running down towards the other doors, the taller of the two men made to charge past Cate in their pursuit. As he was almost level with her, she pivoted, grabbed his leading wrist and, with a twist of her hips, sent him flying to the floor. Since he had already being moving swiftly, the man landed with quite a satisfying thud. Standing straight, Cate looked as surprised as the second man, who took it upon himself to place hands upon her person. Since her right hand was virtually useless, Cate realised it would be only seconds before she was rendered _hors de combat_ , so made no resistance as she was shoved, face first and quite hard, against the wall. Her lip stung and she tasted blood.

As the first man regained his feet, Cate realised she was now really deep in this … whatever it was … but the corridor was empty and the doors at the far end had stopped swinging. Erik and Medina had escaped.

###

It had been almost three hours since the last question. She had been in this chilly little interrogation room alone, without any interference from anyone, or even the offer of a cup of tea; and was bored, cold and hungry. Her bandaged hand throbbed and her lip was swollen. Other than that, she hadn't been mistreated in the slightest, not even shouted at, a fact that Cate found quite surprising. Looking around the glassed-in room which reflected only the room itself and nothing beyond, she wondered if Mycroft knew about this yet. She wrinkled her nose. _Of course he would know about this_. He had probably known about it within five minutes of her being brought in for questioning. This meant he was leaving her here to stew. _Fair enough_. It was what she would have done had the situation been reversed.

The door opened, and two men walked in; one she didn't recognise, the other was Mycroft. Walking over, he held out her coat without comment, his face entirely lacking in expression as he placed it carefully around her shoulders. Wincing a little as her fingers throbbed, Cate stood, waiting. Without a word, he opened the door for her, his hand carefully placed in the small of her back as he escorted her along several glass-walled corridors and down into an underground car-park. The Jaguar was waiting and Cate slid inside. Traffic was light and within a very short space of time, Mycroft was closing their front door behind them.

Walking directly into the drawing-room. He poured a malt for himself and an armagnac for her. Taking the glasses and Cate's elbow, he propelled her into the kitchen where he sat her on a stool, putting the glass in her good hand. Downing his own drink in one, Mycroft put his glass down and picked up her bandaged arm, carefully undoing all of Kwan's immaculate work. Neither of them had uttered a single word.

Gently lifting Cate's fingers, Mycroft's face hardened as he inspected her swollen and bruised knuckles, vivid lines of purple, red and black extending up to her wrist.

"X-ray, I think," he murmured.

Lifting her fingers in the air, Cate wiggled them slowly. "Nothing's broken," she said. "I have no need of an x-ray."

Mycroft looked at her: his expression chilly. "It was not a suggestion."

"I believe we've had this conversation before," Cate replied. "I didn't need an x-ray then, and I don't need one now, although I appreciate your concern."

"Drink up," he said, flatly. "We're off to the Hanley for another x-ray."

It was clear he wasn't about to let this go. Sighing, Cate slid her hand gingerly into her sleeve. Mycroft's fingers moved gently to tilt her jaw, holding her face to get a good look at the split in her lip. "That will be painful for a while," he observed.

Cate thought he was taking this entire thing incredibly well. She had imagined all sorts of dire fallout once they had arrived home, but Mycroft appeared to be rising above it all. The least she could do was allow him his x-ray.

The same doctor – Lanier – organised the radiography.

"Back again?" he smiled. "Thought you were going to give up the … whatever it was you were doing to cause this sort of damage?"

Smiling, Cate shrugged. "This is a whole new sort of damage."

"What have you been doing this time?" Lanier asked, turning her wrist very carefully and instructing her to move each finger in a certain way.

Aware Mycroft was standing right behind her, Cate sighed. He wasn't going to like this.

"I punched my way through a plank of wood," she said. "Hapkido."

"Dangerous things, planks," Lanier mused as he manipulated her wrist up and down. "Does this hurt at all?"

"Not really," Cate made a face, "although there is a feeling of something pulling up here," she ran fingertips up the length of her forearm.

"Hyperextended ligaments," he nodded. "Don't think there's a break, but let's wait for the x-rays to be sure." He stepped out to fetch the films.

"And how did you injure your mouth?" Mycroft's voice was curiously controlled.

"I … must have …" Cate faltered as her husband's eyes fixed on hers. Mycroft lifted a single eyebrow. He knew she was a hopeless liar in any case, but she couldn't pretend worth a damn with him.

Cate was resigned. "I got into a fight with the two MI5 men sent to pick up Medina and Erik," she said, simply. "I put one on the floor but the other would have been too much for me with only one hand, so I let him grab me and I hit the wall." Cate paused. "Well, my lip hit the wall," she added.

"You put a security services operative down?" Mycroft asked mildly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"I don't think he was expecting any interference," Cate said, candidly. "I doubt I'd have got anywhere near him if he'd expected trouble." Sucking her swollen lip, Cate made a face. " _Ow_."

"Do you remember which of the operatives was responsible for your injury?" he asked, an odd tone in his voice. Cate looked at him. Mycroft sounded very calm, but it hadn't been a calm question.

"Wouldn't have a clue," she lied, knowing he would be aware of the lie, and also why she had said it. His mouth compressed.

"Are you injured anywhere else?" Mycroft's eyes were dark again.

"No," Cate said. "I earned my red belt," she added with a grin.

"By causing severe damage to your hand?" Mycroft didn't share her delight.

"Oh no," she grinned harder, "I did that the first time I tried it, but I managed it perfectly well the second time, with my other hand." As soon as the words left her mouth, Cate closed her eyes, knowing she was fifteen different kinds of an idiot.

"You damaged one hand and then made a second attempt with the other?" Mycroft's voice had dropped to a very quiet level. To her ears, he sounded almost angry.

" _I did."_ Cate began to feel angry herself under this interrogation. "I told you what I was doing before I started and you seemed fine with it then."

"That was before you started hurting yourself," his voice was still incredibly soft.

"Mycroft, I am a grown woman," Cate was irritated. "I can decide what, or what not to do without constant reference to your preferences."

About to reply, Mycroft stopped short as Lanier returned with the films.

"Nothing broken this time, either," he observed, "so only ligament and soft-tissue damage to deal with," the doctor smiled briefly. "We'll have you fixed up in a jiffy."

By the time they returned home from the Hanley, Cate was beginning to feel very tired. Her hand ached, her face was sore, a joyous little headache was just beginning to make itself at home, and she was hungry. Heading towards the kitchen to start dinner, Mycroft diverted her into the drawing-room. He led her to a sofa. Clearly he wanted to talk, so she sat, waiting.

"What do you think you are doing?" Mycroft leaned against the high back of a chair, his arms folded. He stared at her.

"Think about doing what?" Cate was unclear exactly which part of 'what' he meant.

" _Cate_ ," Mycroft leaned towards her to emphasise his point." You are in trouble with MI5. This is serious."

"There are two scared young people out there who are caught between their reality and your reality," Cate frowned. "They came to me for help and I felt I should give it, so I did."

"Regardless of the situation this puts you in?" he was incredulous.

"In case it's escaped your notice," Cate paused meaningfully, "sometimes I do things without considering my position, because I happen to think it's the right thing to do."

"Not in this instance," Mycroft shook his head. "And have you thought of where this leaves me?"

Cate really hadn't, but wondered how bad it could possibly be for him.

"You," she observed, "can take care of yourself. Those two don't have a clue."

"As apparently, neither do _you_!" Mycroft barked, suddenly angry. Standing, he walked to the mantle, resting a hand against its Georgian elegance. He took a deep breath. "Have you _any_ concept at all of the mess you've created through your interference?"

"I have created time for better thought," Cate stood. She was not about to be scolded like a child. "Time for these two to think through their options and to choose, as adults, what _they_ want, and not," she snapped, "whatever actions _you_ will permit."

"You walk a dangerous line, Cate," Mycroft's voice was ominous. "I cannot let you do this."

" _Cannot_?" Inhaling slowly, her eyes widened in indignation. " _Cannot_?"

"In any problem," he spoke slowly, "there are always three key considerations." Staring into his wife's face, Mycroft wanted to make sure she understood the gravity and magnitude of the situation. "That which may be thought; that which may be said, and that which may be done," he continued, articulating his words with a chill precision bordering upon the pedantic. "It's known as the Trivium Protocol, and every single international accord relies upon all sides cohering to its rules." Looking down, Mycroft paused. "You are risking the protocol in this instance."

"I am not one of your _sides_ ," Cate muttered, angrily. "I am an adult and no rules apply unless I first consent to them," she paused. "I will not be bullied into doing what you say."

"You'll follow these rules," Mycroft said. "Or there'll be consequences."

Her skin tingling in shock, Cate paused. _Had he just threatened her_? She scanned his face, his eyes, for an indication, but Mycroft was impenetrable and distant. Cate could not recall seeing him like this before. He was so cold; like ice.

"I will not bow to ultimatums," she ground out, her jaw stiff with opposition. "Or your particular brand of intimidation."

"In this matter, you will do as I say," Mycroft stared her down. "There will be no argument about this, Cate," he added.

"No _argument_?" she demanded, stunned. " _You'll_ have no argument from _me_?" Cate was breathless with astonishment, her anger rising like lava from deep inside.

"You are in no position to offer an argument, and you will have no further involvement in this situation." His voice was as hard as his expression.

"I will do as I think best," she struggled to maintain a level tone.

"This conversation is concluded," Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. "There will be no further discussion of the matter."

" _Or_ _what_?" she demanded, stepping in front of him. "You'll put me in gaol? Have me locked away like some recalcitrant?" Cate was so angry, she wanted to throw something. "You _dare_ tell me you'll have no discussion!"

Mycroft's expression was stony, his eyes narrowed and unfriendly. He was also silent. Her heart thumping in her chest, Cate strove for an even breath. He was utterly serious. He was not going to let her speak. The situation was beyond belief.

"I'm going to bed," Cate knew she had to calm her thoughts. "I'll sleep in the guest room tonight," she said, walking away from him without another word.

Watching her leave the room, Mycroft supressed the urge to wrap her in his arms and hold her until logic and common sense prevailed, but he dare not risk her involvement. Or her life.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_Caught in the Act – The Hardest Thing – Going to the Angel – The Sword of Damocles – Calling Home – Gone, Disappeared and Missing – Fathers – The Mysterious Mr Dunwin – Hard Knowledge._

_#_

_#_

Of course, one of them had to scream. It wouldn't have been a proper discovery unless one of them screamed. _The thing with Americans_ , John thought, his head throbbing at the raw echoes of the woman's eardrum-piercing shrieks, is that they truly believe Hollywood is correct. Apparently, you simply _must_ scream at the top of your lungs if you think you've witnessed a gruesome murder. More so if the assumed murderer is still there with fresh blood on his hands. _Especially_ if he's British. And if he's British, blood-covered and smiling, you scream sufficient to wake the dead. Apparently, his smile had been the final straw.

Greg Lestrade had been sympathetic … up to a point.

"How the bloody hell did you get mixed up in this mess?" the tall Londoner had demanded. "And _you_ ," he scorned. "Of all people. A _doctor_. Didn't you stop to think how you being covered in the guy's blood was going to look?"

"As a _doctor_ ," John frowned. "It was essential for me to make sure the man was actually dead before I worried about what it might look like for me, a _doctor_."

"You know I'll have to bring you in and go through all the usual procedures, don't you?" the Inspector was faintly apologetic.

John was disconcerted. " _You_ know I had nothing to do with this man's death, don't you?" he checked Lestrade's expression to be sure.

"Yes, _Doctor_ Watson," Lestrade lifted his eyebrows and stared down at the shorter man. "I am personally confident that you had nothing to do with the actual murder of this man, but you were here and up to your elbows in the guy's blood when the Yanks arrived on the scene." Greg Lestrade paused, shaking his head. "It's not as good as it could be."

Sighing, John made a semi-sheepish face. "There's something else," he said reluctantly. "You're not going to like this."

Explaining about Sean Lachlan, the loan, the aggressive finance company and the strange meeting in the Ancient Egypt exhibit, John realised he was not making his case any better as Lestrade's eyes glazed.

"Are you _serious_?" he asked when John was done. "You realise now that you are not only some bloke who happened to be passing, but a 'person of interest' and quite possibly the Prime Suspect for knocking this guy off?"

"An impossibility, Inspector," Sherlock's assertive baritone echoed around the marbled room. "John wasn't anywhere near here when the man was murdered."

Sherlock had arrived on the scene while the American was still doing her Hollywood best. Not that he wasn't happy to see his flatmate, but John had to wonder how he had made it here so swiftly. Then it clicked. _Of course_. What was he thinking? _Of course_ he knew how Sherlock had appeared seconds after the screaming had started. He had probably been there before it had begun. Shaking his head, John realised his excuses about finding a job had been accepted far too readily.

Knowing Sherlock, and knowing he was just about to prove John was utterly innocent, Lestrade grinned. "Go on, then," he said. "Tell me how he couldn't have done it."

"CCTV cameras both outside and inside the museum will confirm the time that John arrived and entered the Egyptian exhibit," Sherlock looked thoughtfully at his friend. "Just as they may also identify the actual murderer." He paused. "If you'll look at John's wrists, Inspector, you'll observe that the dead man's blood was already congealing as evidenced by the liberal coating on John's hands which did not run when he raised them. Further," Sherlock began to sound bored. "Any semi-competent autopsy will indicate the extant liver-temperature is commensurate with a time-of-death significantly before my colleague entered the building," he added. "Finally," he looked around, curious. "Weapon?"

"What weapon?" John asked.

" _Precisely_ ," Sherlock offered Lestrade a fractional smile. "Can we go?" he asked.

###

They had barely spoken a word.

Cate had spent the night in the silence of one of the guest-rooms, unable to rest, and as far from sleep as she was ever likely to be. It had been grim. Her right hand throbbed and she'd removed the bandage in order to relieve it. On top of that, she'd never felt so emotionally desolate and didn't know how to make it stop. She could not walk away from the situation confronting the two students and, since she'd involved herself voluntarily in their problems, she could not, in all conscience, do what Mycroft demanded she do. It would be a denial of everything she held true. That this decision diametrically opposed his standpoint, not to mention his government work, meant she would be miserable either way. How could he not see this? Or perhaps he did see it and considered it unimportant? Either way, she felt awful. The situation had whirled around and around her head until she felt unwell. She had no appetite and sat in the kitchen sipping tea.

Mycroft's night had been similarly disturbed and he was out of sorts. He had barely slept, restless and ill at ease in her absence. The bed had been wretchedly empty without her warmth. He had missed her breathing, the comfort of having her sleep beside him. Looking sideways, he noted the shadows beneath her eyes and pink, slightly inflamed eyelids. She had been crying. His stomach knotted. The idea that not only had she been crying, but that she had taken care to make sure he did not hear her cry, twisted inside him. The urge to take her in his arms and hold her until she stopped fighting, until she was his happy Cate again, was almost intolerable. But he could not relent. For her sake and safety, he dare not. The thought of eating held no appeal for him either.

"I'm taking the day off work," her voice was cheerless. "There are things I need to do and I'm not in the mood to be jolly for the sake of others."

"I understand," his voice was equable but had the rasp of gravel. "I'll see you later?"

Turning to look at him directly for the first time that morning, Cate ached at the tight lines of his face and the frown between his eyes. "Later," she lowered her gaze and turned away. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

Pausing, Mycroft felt a strange need to stay until this situation was resolved, until they could part as allies rather than cold-war opposites. Almost ready to announce his intention to stay, he realised how it would look to Cate. He had to leave her to her own deliberations, and in peace. Inhaling deeply, he walked out of the kitchen and out of the house.

Through the last of her sleepless hours, Cate had realised what she had to do. If she accepted the status quo, bad things would become worse, especially for Medina and Erik. If she was able to do what so obviously needed to be done, this might all be over within the next few days, perhaps even by tomorrow. Some things would be harder to choreograph than others, but she hadn't been able to think of an alternative.

Picking up her phone, she called the bank. Cate wanted money. Quite a lot of money, and she needed to be sure she could get what she wanted in cash. Apparently, that would be no problem. Good. One of the easy things done. Then she phoned the University to advise them that an unexpected problem necessitated her absence for at least the next several days, and outlined the actions needed to cover for her time away. In passing, Cate realised if this all went wrong, she'd just bidden goodbye to her professorship.

Letting her fingers do some walking through the Yellow Pages, Cate located a furnished flat for immediate, temporary lease, above a Cuban restaurant in Islington. All the owner wanted was cash, no questions asked. Cate took it for a month, sight unseen. If this wasn't all over well before then, she realised she might have to take it for a lot longer. Another easy thing ticked off the list. Taking a deep breath, she prepared herself for one of the harder tasks.

Sitting, Cate wrote a note. Tried to write a note. Wrote a note several times, screwing up at least a dozen beginnings and throwing them all in the bin. No matter how she tried to say it, the words came out horribly each time. It wasn't even the things she said that were hard, but the things she wasn't able to say. Finally, she finished.

_Mycroft,_

_It seems we have found a place where there is no agreement. I realise this makes us both unhappy, but it would be infinitely worse were I to accede, or pretend to accede to your demands. I will not lie, least of all to you. As this situation has been, at least partly of my making, I feel obliged to help resolve it and am fairly certain you would not support my plans. Therefore it's best I step out of the picture until the problem is eliminated. Hopefully, we can talk more calmly when this is over. Know that I love you, my darling._

_Cate_

Leaving it propped between the salt- and pepper-grinders, he'd see it the moment he walked in. It had to be this way. If she saw him upset, she would surrender in a handful of heartbeats and hold him tight until they were friends again. But it would be a hollow, artificial alliance, and it wouldn't last, and then her heart would be broken.

Thinking, Cate looked at her phone. If she took it with her, Mycroft would be able to trace her the second she switched it on. If she left it, he'd be able to track everything she'd done, every call she'd made. If he wanted to. She sighed. Would he even want to? Switching the phone off, she left it on the granite bench next to the note. She'd leave the choice to him.

Digging out a small case, Cate packed a few necessities. Changing into jeans, trainers, a nondescript sweatshirt and a dark coat and scarf, she took a look around to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything. Seconds later, she had closed the front door behind her and was flagging down a cab.

###

Erik and Medina had followed Cate's instructions and spent the night in separate dorm rooms at the YWCA. Perhaps not the place either of them would have picked, it was at least clean, relatively private and cheap. In Portland Place, the Y was an easy and swift walk from the University, something both of them wanted. They had no desire to be out on the street with men chasing them. Not having heard anything from the Professor, Erik wondered what might have happened to her. She said she was going to cause trouble, and he believed her.

But now the daylight made them think very seriously about what to do next.

"Are you still sure you don't want to go to your father?" Erik asked her as they sat just inside a nearby coffee house. "You say you don't want to go, but it might be the most sensible course of action."

"Do you want me to go?" she asked, softly. "If you don't want to go through this with me, I won't hold you to any promise you think you've made."

"It's not that at all," Erik sighed, troubled. "I simply don't want you getting into any trouble with your family," he paused. "Your dad nearly hit the roof yesterday when he thought I'd taken you to a bar. Imagine what he'd do if he heard we'd both spent the night at the Y."

"I think that is why Professor Cate told us to come here," she said, thoughtfully. "Even if this does come out, my father will know we have behaved with propriety. This is important to me."

Medina looked at him. "Are you going to go to your father?"

"If I absolutely have no other choice," Erik made a face. "I really don't want to drag him into this mess, and even if I did, he'd probably just take everything over and I'd end up doing what he told me to do."

" _Heigh-ho_ , you two," Cate's greeting caught them off-balance. "Sleep well?"

" _Professor Cate_ ," Medina was clearly pleased to see the older woman. "We were unsure if you would come."

Dragging up a smile, Cate nodded, shortly. "I always keep my promises," she said. "Come on," beckoning to them both. "We have to go to ground."

"But where?" Erik looked lost.

"Trust me," Cate answered, looking around their heads for the nearest CCTV camera. "Just keep your heads down so those things," she pointed swiftly at the small white camera box across the road, "can't identify your face."

"Where are we going?" Medina was curious.

Glancing back over her shoulder, Cate raised her eyebrows. "Going to see an Angel," she winked.

###

"And you lied for what particular reason?" Sherlock was genuinely curious. "Did you really think your ability to dissemble has improved _that_ much?"

"Look, Sherlock," John snapped. "I honestly do not need one of your lectures right now." Throwing himself into his armchair, he rested his chin in his hand and stared gloomily at the carpet.

"You aren't worried about a murder charge?" Sherlock examined his friend's face. "You already know there is no possibility of that standing up to even a minimal examination?"

"It's not that," John muttered, rubbing his eyes. "It's this bloody loan," he said. "It's still hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles."

"Then you must do something about it." Sitting back, Sherlock steepled his fingers as if that was all there was to the matter. "Have you considered a personal meeting with the – whoever it is – in charge?"

"I thought," John was slightly savage. "That I was going to have one of _those_ at the museum this afternoon," he complained. "And look how that turned out."

"High time you met with the principal, in that case." Leaning over to take John's laptop, Sherlock tapped a key … and sighed. " _Another_ attempted change of password?" he asked despairingly. "Really, John," he looked thoughtful for a moment, slowly tapping through a few keys. "It's not even as if you choose interesting options. I mean, _'Bankrupt£££_?'"

"You do this just to piss me off, don't you?" John scowled. "And thank you _very_ much," he grabbed the laptop back, snapping it closed. "Go and annoy some other poor destitute sod."

Sitting silently in his Le Corbusier, Sherlock waited, his eyes resting on the closed computer. Neither man moved or spoke. The clock ticked. Outside a dog barked. John cracked first.

"Oh, bloody well take it then," he said, shoving the laptop at his friend.

"As I was saying," Sherlock hit Google and typed rapidly. "You need to go to the top," he paused, frowning slightly. "And in this case, the top would seem to be this man." Turning the laptop around for John to see, the name of _Malcolm D. Dunwin_ , Chief Financial Officer of Bow Bells Finance.

"And here," Sherlock noted an address with a hint of satisfaction, "is where we may be able to find him."

###

Coming out of the Underground at The Angel, Islington, Medina realise what Cate had meant. It had been difficult to keep their faces away from all the cameras – none of them realised just how many there were around the place. Cate smiled wryly as she began to understand how Mycroft seemed to know what was going on across the City at any given moment. He could actually see it. Not magic, after all.

Heading out along Upper Street, Cate kept looking up out of the corner of her eyes trying to spot the CCTV cameras. _Dear God, they were everywhere_. It would be nearly impossible to avoid them all. She'd have to think of a way to stop them being spotted.

Arriving at the flat, she stuck her hand through the letterbox to grab the key she had been told would be waiting there for her. Stepping quickly inside, the three of them ran up two flights of badly carpeted stairs directly into a central lounge area. It smelled musty and Medina went immediately to open a window. There were thick nets curtains in all the windows, which was fortunate or they would have had to keep the curtains closed.

As with most cheap, furnished accommodation, the place was a mismatch of colours and styles, but it looked relatively clean and sanitary. A faint whiff of old cigarette smoke clung to the walls, but not so bad as to be dreadfully unpleasant.

Off the lounge was a tiny kitchen-diner next to a surprisingly capacious and modern bathroom, and on the other side of the lounge were two small bedrooms. Cate had looked for a flat with at least two. There was a single bed in the smaller and a double in the larger one.

"You're sleeping in there," she told Erik, pointing to the single bed. "Medina and I shall share the big bed." Cate dumped her bag on the floor, turning to the girl. "As of now," she said, "I am your chaperone. Your father and mother can never think you stayed with a man without me around, okay?"

Understanding immediately, Medina put a hand on the older woman's arm. "Thank you," she nodded. "I had worried."

"Right, then," Cate stood in the main room. "This is what I think we should do next." Outlining her plan, she made it clear to both Medina and Erik that they were only here because the two of them had decided on this particular course of action; that either of them could end it at any time simply by deciding to go to their fathers, or failing that, when Medina was reinstituted as a student by the university. Did they both agree? Yes, they agreed. Did they understand why they had to stay out of sight as much as possible? Did they realise that people were going to be looking for them? Yes, they understood.

"And now," Cate took a deep breath. "We are going to phone your fathers."

" _What_?!" Erik was stunned. "After all this, you're going to dump us just like that?"

Looking at him from beneath her brows, Cate cleared her throat.

"I am going to tell them about the situation you are in," she clarified. "And advise them that because of this alarming treatment by both the university and whoever else is after you, that you have agreed to stay with me, temporarily, until the problem is rectified," she turned to Erik. "I don't think your father will be too difficult to handle, although he's certainly unlikely to be terribly happy," she said. "But your father," she looked at Medina. "Will be an entirely different problem. Be ready with answers to his questions, and remember," she said, "You can call this all off in a second if you change your mind." Glancing at them both. "You will have to speak to your respective parent and tell him that this is your choice."

Erik made a face and nodded. If his dad were to find out he'd gone missing without any explanation, there'd be all hell to pay. Medina was wondering how she could tell her father she didn't want to go home. But she would have to – she was accountable for her decisions now.

Seeing the look of resigned acceptance on their faces, Cate took another deep breath and dug three prepaid phones from her bag. Giving Erik and Medina one each, she kept the third for herself. "Right," she said. "Who's going first?"

###

Lestrade was at his desk, drinking tea. "What do you mean, _gone_?" he said.

Donovan shrugged. "She's disappeared, Sir." Looking down at the situation report, she shrugged again. "Two constables went to accompany one Medina bint Malik al Badour from her hall of residence to the Brook House holding facility at Heathrow, but were advised that the girl had not returned after leaving the previous morning." Sally Donovan was not surprised. The girl had done what many did: on learning she was about to be deported, she'd done a bunk.

Greg Lestrade was not convinced. The very fact that Holmes the elder was involved in this situation spoke volumes. There was more going on here than met the eye.

"Then we'd better start looking, hadn't we?" he asked, leaning forward and grabbing his desk phone. "Let's get the girl's picture circulating and get the standard 'all eyes' alert to all Metropolitan stations," he added. "We should also contact the local hospitals, hostels and mosques … _ah yes_ ," he spoke into the phone. "I need to get a missing person alert out for a Medina bint Malik al Badour…"

Within minutes, the search was officially on: Medina was now the subject of a full-scale police hunt.

###

"What do you mean, they've all _disappeared_?" Edward Cardin, Metropolitan Section Chief of Britain's Security Services, turned, scowling, at the man beside him. "What, all three of them?"

"Yes, Sir," the MI5 operative wasn't entirely happy either. "Neither al Badour's daughter or the young man who's been accompanying her, Erik Norling, have been seen since they evaded detention yesterday at the University campus in Gower Street." Checking the sheet of paper in his hand "Professor Adin-Holmes didn't turn up for work this morning, does not appear to be at her home, nor is she answering calls," the man paused. "It's a fair assumption the three of them are off together somewhere, especially after the woman's interference with our people yesterday."

"Does Mycroft Holmes know his wife might have disappeared?"

"Not yet, Sir."

" _Jesus_."

"Are you going to tell him?"

"Not in this lifetime," Cardin leaned over to pick up his phone. Hitting a few buttons, he waited. There was a voice.

" _Donald_?" he asked. "You might want to sit down for this one …"

###

"I am aware of that," Mycroft was perfectly calm in response to Donald Parker's assertion that Cate had not turned up for work. "I am curious, however," he added, "as to your reason for having this information, and why it is of interest to your organisation in the first place."

"Your wife is not at home, either," Parker continued, ignoring Mycroft's question. "Nor is she answering her phone."

"You have been attempting to contact Cate?" Mycroft's voice, perfectly modulated, turned to stone. "I thought we agreed she would be unharried?"

"Unless there was a clear connection between her and al Badour," Parker reminded him. "And there appears to be one … _now_."

"Being ..?"

"The girl, her boyfriend and your wife have all apparently vanished," the MI5 man sounded uncharacteristically sympathetic. "There is good reason to assume they may have gone into hiding together."

The icy breath of awful possibility curled around Mycroft's lungs. If Cate were not at home, then either she had gone … or she had been taken.

"I will look into this," he said, "and advise you accordingly."

"Do that, Holmes," Parker hung up.

Mycroft summoned his car.

###

The atmosphere in the flat was strained and Cate wondered if there were any tea in the kitchen: they all needed something after the last thirty minutes.

Erik had spoken with his father first. Everything seemed to be going swimmingly until he'd announced that Medina was involved.

"Yes, Dad, she's a girl," Erik had sighed, the phone buzzed in his ear. "No, she is _not_ pregnant," he hissed, embarrassed. Louder buzzing. "Because I don't want her to be in this trouble by herself," he answered. "With the government … no, I don't know …" Raising his eyebrows in mute appeal, Cate decided it was time for her to act.

" _Mr Norling_ ," taking Erik's phone, she began to explain.

Erik's father, understandably, was unimpressed with the situation. Had his son not been there to speak for himself, he would have accused Cate of kidnapping. Since Erik was over eighteen and doing this of his own free-will, there was little more to be said. He said it anyway. Erik was red-faced and miserable when the call ended.

Cate looked the question at Medina. The next call would be the hard one.

Taking a deep breath, the girl reached her father at his hotel. Cate and Erik looked at each other, Cate ready to step in as soon as she was needed; Erik just wanted it all over with.

Speaking in Arabic, assuming that neither Erik not Cate could understand, Medina explained as simply as possible that she had been unfairly excluded from school and had to leave her hall of residence. In the meantime, she was staying with one of her professors who was here to speak with him if he wanted further information. When she turned to Cate, Medina got a look that said she hadn't been completely open with her father. The girl had no idea how the Professor might think this, but Cate's expression had been fairly explicit.

Taking the phone from Medina's fingers, Cate cleared her throat and launched into fluent _Khaliji_ Arabic; a soft melody of vowels and harder, alliterative stops. In speaking with Malik al Badour, Cate made it abundantly clear that Medina was under her protection and that she was acting in the place of a maternal guardian. She also made it plain that Medina was her student, that she had been unfairly treated, and that they were going to work together to resolve the situation, however this had been complicated by intervention from various elements of the government.

All the while Cate was talking to al Badour, both Erik and Medina stared at her as if she were the Tooth Fairy come to life. That the Professor could speak Arabic, let alone so idiomatically, was unexpected.

Though he was clearly unhappy with events, it seemed that Medina's father was more-or-less accepting of the situation, although he was determined in that he wanted to take his daughter away. Cate handed the phone back.

"Tell him what you want to do," she said. "Tell him clearly so that there is no misunderstanding, please."

Knowing now that speaking a language other than English was no cover for her words, Medina was a little more direct this time. The phone buzzed in her ear. Erik made a face; he knew what she was hearing.

"No, father, I do not wish to do that," she objected. " _I will not_." The conversation squawked loudly, she jumped. "No," she repeated. "I will not go home because of this."

There was an ominous silence in the conversation. Cate was unsure whether this was possibly a good thing or not. Watching the girl's face pale, probably not. Medina simply ended the call.

"My father is adamant I must return home," she said. "He wants me to go to his hotel right away."

With a pained look, Erik started to drag his coat on. "Better get going, in that case," he muttered. Medina smiled, sadly.

"I told him I wouldn't leave London before this problem was fixed," she said. "I still need a friend if you are willing to be one."

Cate saw a sweet kind of smile blanket Erik's face. She sighed silently. Just as well there were only two bedrooms.

###

Walking along, counting the street numbers until Two-hundred and seventy-one, John and Sherlock eventually located the designated address of the CFO of the finance company holding John's signature. It was nothing more than a plain shop-front. The place looked deserted: the windows were boarded over and there was a pile of enveloped stuffed half-heartedly into the letterbox. Not a good sign.

"You sure this is the place?" John squinted as best he could through the dusty glass. "Doesn't look like anyone's home."

"This must be a convenience letter-drop," Sherlock looked swiftly around. "No point wasting time here, the man we're after is a solicitor and would be in his offices," he paused. "We shall have to find them." Leaning down, he yanked out several of the envelopes, a couple of them tearing in the process.

"Oh _look_ ," he said, innocently. "Somehow these envelopes have been opened and just left lying around," he grinned as he extracted the contents. Mostly invoices, a couple of advertisements. All of them addressed to _Hamilton and Dunwin, Solicitors_ , at this address. He smiled in satisfaction.

"Now we have them," he said, pulling out his phone, searching for the partnership online. Within a few seconds, he turned back to John, a mildly pleased expression on his face. "Our mysterious Mr Dunwin and his colleague have a legal practice in the East End," he said. "Let's go."

Arriving in a much-gentrified street in Stepney, John and Sherlock assessed the building upon which an excessively ornate brass plate bearing the designate of _'Hamilton and Dunwin – Solicitors'_ stood very proud indeed.

Entering a thoroughly modernised foyer, Sherlock's eyes swept the cool lines of the office, reading invisible signs of usage; the tracks of carpet-wear, marks on paint-work. Knowing instantly which office to approach, he smiled condescendingly at the receptionist, striding past her and through the second door to her left.

" _Hey_!" she called, half-standing, staring. "You can't simply walk into Mr Dunwin's office…"

"Apparently, we can," John was right on his friend's heels, closing the office door smartly behind him, holding the handle still.

Sitting at an reproduction Hepplewhite writing table, a startled scowl across his face, was a well-fed man in an expensive, loudly-striped suit. Difficult though it was not to scoff, Sherlock flung himself into one of the two - fake - mahogany elbow-chairs deigned suitable, one assumed, for clients. He smiled, linking his fingers.

"Bow Bells Finance," he offered.

As John moved to sit in the other chair, the office door was flung open angrily by the receptionist. "Want me to call the police, Mr Dunwin?"

Alternating between the strangers' faces, Dunwin felt perhaps he'd better listen to what they had to say before involving the law. The dark-haired guy was clearly manic, and the blonde one looked a bit on the tough side.

"No, that's fine, Shelly," he said, his eyes settling on Sherlock as the one to watch. "I'll call you if I need anything."

Unconvinced and still bristling, Shelly closed the door, a baleful glare aimed at the back of Sherlock's head.

"So, _Gentlemen_ ," Dunwin attempted politeness. "To what do I owe the pleasure ..?"

"You are the CFO of Bow Bells Finance?" Sherlock stared at the man over his hands.

"I am," Dunwin was openly puzzled.

"One of your employees met with an unpleasant ending yesterday."

Ah. No need to call the law, then. It was already here. "Yes," he nodded, an appropriately sombre look on his face. "Tragic."

"The man was at the British Museum because he had arranged to meet my colleague here, to discuss a small financial matter pertaining your company." Sherlock raised both eyebrows.

Dunwin began to feel uneasy.

"No, my colleague did not kill him, but that's not to say he couldn't have." The man's thoughts were so flagrantly obvious, even John could read them.

"And why do you want to talk to me on this matter?" Dunwin chose his words carefully. "I have no connection with this unfortunate death."

"But he worked for you," John leaned forward against the tacky repro desk. "You might even have sent him there to meet me."

"To discuss ..?"

"A sum of money a friend of mine died owing you," John sat back. "I don't have the money to repay it and wanted to talk about coming to some new arrangement."

Dunwin relaxed a little. So all this was about one of the loans? "How much?" he asked.

"Twenty thousand," John still had trouble saying the amount.

"And what kind of new arrangement were you thinking of?

"How about a total write-off of the debt?" Sherlock was perfectly serious as he smiled at the solicitor. It was a disturbing look. It disturbed Dunwin, at least.

"I can't do that," he muttered. "I don't have the necessary authority to action any change on that sort of money." Dunwin shuffled uncomfortably in his seat beneath Sherlock's unbending gaze. "You'll need to speak to the Boss about that kind of dosh."

John's heart sank. Dunwin wasn't in charge? _Then who the hell was_?

Throwing a notebook and pen at the increasingly unnerved legal advisor, Sherlock was perfunctory. "Name and address," he snapped.

Looking anxiously between the two of them, Dunwin hesitated.

" _Name_!" Sherlock's barked command had the solicitor almost jumping out of an appallingly replicated piece of Queen Anne.

Leaning forward, Dunwin scribbled a couple of lines of writing before pushing the book back across the table.

Scanning the scrawled words, Sherlock smiled politely. "Thank you."

Leaving the office, John looked at the still-angry receptionist and nodded back at Dunwin's room. "He might need a cup of tea," he said.

###

Mycroft arrived home while it was still light, although the day was already drawing in. He walked directly into the kitchen, where, whoever was at home, would usually be preparing dinner. It was empty; clean and uncluttered as if unused for the week. A chill settled in his belly. Cate was not here: he would know if she were, he had a sixth-sense for her now. Inexplicable, but true. The house was empty of her.

Observing the single sheet of paper wedged upright on the bench top, his breath caught. He knew, without reading a word, that the contents would contain no good news. Inhaling slowly, he read it anyway, time slowing as he did.

Apparently, Cate's feelings in this matter were far deeper than he'd allowed himself to believe. That she felt unable to continue living in the same house as him while the problem was unresolved, reflected as much on him as on her. Mycroft heard her voice in the words. _Know that I love you_.

Ah, _Cate … no_.

Pushing a rising coldness down, he turned back to the bench and saw her phone, clearly left for him. Picking it up, both to touch something of hers and to give himself something practical upon which to focus, he turned it on, scanning vaguely through the menu icons. Bypassing _calls_ and _messages_ for the moment, Mycroft focused on one called _Keep_. Opening the folder, his heart thudded. It was full of photographs. Of him.

There was an image of him sitting in an armchair, chin in hand, wearing a particular look of thoughtfulness. Another was of him standing by the kitchen windows staring out into the walled courtyard, his mind a continent away. Yet another was of him stretched out asleep on a sofa, newspaper folded across his chest. Scrolling through the collection he realised there must be dozens of images. All were of him. He couldn't remember her taking any of them. Pausing the list, Mycroft stopped at a particular picture he actually did recall. He had been standing in the sun-garden at Deepdene, hands in his trouser-pockets, appreciating the perfume of the flowers. She had called his name and snapped the picture as he turned to her. He had been happy. He had been smiling. His throat tightened at the memory.

 _Cate_.

Putting the phone down, he sagged against the granite bench top, his body suddenly too heavy. As he leaned forward, Mycroft saw a corner of paper sticking out of the kitchen bin. Compelled to look, he halted in gut-wrenching realisation. Extracting the crumpled mass with great care, he flattened each piece on the unforgiving stone, and read and re-read Cate's attempts to communicate her decision. … _I cannot break a promise_ … _I don't want to hurt you_ … _Forgive me, my love_ …

The tightness in his throat spread to his chest. It hurt.

 _Cate_.

A hard knowledge surged through his body. She had left him.

 _Cate_.

The decision arrived without thought. It was simply what he would do. Standing slowly upright, Mycroft Holmes narrowed his eyes, already dismissing strategies.

He would find her and bring her home.

 


	5. Chapter 5

_Off To See the Wizard – No Appointment Necessary – Collusion – CCTV – Not a Bad Father –You Must Be Dreaming – A Fortuitous Meeting._

_#_

_#_

"Well I think it looks bloody awful," Erik regarded his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Medina grinned as she packed away the detritus associated with his recent transformation. From being a Nordic ice-blonde, Erik was now a dark, mousey-brown, with eyebrows to match.

"You still look very handsome," she laughed, poking his shoulder. "Stop being so vain."

Smiling down at her, Erik raised his eyebrows. "You think I look handsome?" he asked, half in joke.

Nodding, a little self-consciously, Medina smiled. "Yes," she acknowledged quietly. "You are good-looking."

It was difficult not to stare at the girl beside him, and Erik wasn't trying too hard. Their eyes seemed fixed on each other … everything went very quiet.

The front-door of the flat rattled open as Cate came in with supplies.

"Salad and aubergine carbonara for dinner," she said, dumping one of the bags in the kitchen. "These are for you two," she added, handing the other bag to Medina, noticing Erik's quite radical make-over with approval. It certainly changed his appearance; nobody seeing him now would make any connection with a disappearing blonde student. _Good_.

Tipping the bag open, Medina picked out several toiletry items and articles of clothing for herself, handing the other things over to Erik. At least now they could clean up and change into fresh clothes.

"I'm going to see the Vice Chancellor tonight," Cate told them. "I won't be long, but I'm going to try and persuade him to reinstate you," she said to Medina.

"You're going to the University?" Erik asked. "Isn't that dangerous? What if you're spotted?"

"Not the university," Cate shook her head. "I know where Charles Shelsher lives."

"You know the VC socially?" Erik wasn't sure whether to be impressed.

"I have a connection to him that goes all the way back to his undergrad days at Oxford." Allowing herself a meditative smile, Cate picked up an aubergine and a sharp little knife.

###

Strolling along Lowndes Place in Knightsbridge, Sherlock nodded to himself. _This_ was more like it. If the mysterious kingpin of the usurious Bow Bells Finance lived anywhere, it was going to be here. Strafing the area with a perceptive eye, he noted the extravagance of security cameras, building alarms and barred windows. Gazing upwards, he registered a number of Home Office CCTV cameras, as well as several private ones, run, no doubt, by the owners of the surrounding mansions. They were placed in highly visible locations.

Walking towards an imposing marble-stepped portico sheltering a massive and rather grand dark-blue door, John paused before pressing the ostentatious doorbell.

"You don't need to come in with me, you know," he said, turning to his flatmate. "I am quite capable of handling this all by myself."

"Of course you are, John," Sherlock was staring at the nearest ground-floor window. The blinds had twitched momentarily. They were expected.

The door was opened by a butler. "May I help you?" he asked, civilly.

"I'd like to speak with Mr Norling, please," John smiled half-heartedly.

"Do you have an appointment, Sir?" the factotum smiled mildly.

Seeing John about to flounder, Sherlock stepped up, smiling brightly. "Yes," he nodded. "He is expecting us."

"Then please come in, Gentlemen," the man ushered them into a luxuriously-furnished and beautifully-appointed atrium. "I shall advise Mr Norling you have arrived." Waving them to several large upholstered chairs, "please make yourself comfortable."

Stepping away, the man walked deeper into the house – John was hard-pressed to call it a _home_ – it felt more like a five-star hotel. About to take a seat, he felt the shoulder of his jacket pulled as, instead of waiting as directed, Sherlock followed the butler on silent feet. Making a face, John went along, thankful both that his shoes had rubber soles and that the carpet around here was deep enough to have lost tribes in it.

About to knock on a set of double-doors, the butler paused.

"Thank you," Sherlock whisked himself around the stationary man. "We'll take it from here." He opened both doors wide, striding through to the room beyond.

Sighing, John felt this was perhaps not the best way to assure the most positive of responses from the man he'd come to see. Not a lot of people liked strangers barging in; especially people with domestic staff. _On the other hand_ , his brain added as a postscript, they seemed to be getting quite good results when they did, so …

Ignoring the butler's angry protestations, Sherlock focused on the man half-standing beside a well-padded armchair. A little over average height, balding, but possessing the sleekly-groomed appearance of one who understood the need to look the part. The expression his face was not one of shock or fear, but rather interest and wariness. _Surprising_. This would mean that … turning, Sherlock was in time to catch a second door opening into the room admitting two, rather substantially-built men, of a thuggish demeanour. Their hands dived immediately towards their inner jackets. It was not hard to guess the reason.

"Not here for trouble," Sherlock lifted his hands in the air, palms out. "Just want to talk."

As soon as his men appeared, the mansion's owner relaxed, sitting back down into his comfortable chair, waving at his protectors. They lowered their hands, but stood vigilant and ready.

There was an ornate humidor on a side-table. Extracting a princely Cohiba, their boss took his time cutting the cap, lighting it slowly and rolling it in his fingers, puffing gently all the while. Once it was sufficiently alight and to his taste, he turned to look at the interlopers.

"I rarely have strangers in my house these days," he observed. "Especially uninvited ones."

"We're looking for a man called Norling, the Principal of Bow Bells Finance," Sherlock nodded at John. "My colleague here has a problem that won't wait."

"I am Norling," the man spoke in a broad London accent. "Bow Bells is one of mine," he paused. "But I have people who manage it for me. Why not go to them?"

"We did," John stepped forward, then immediately back, as the two heavies reached once again towards their jackets. He raised his hands as had Sherlock. "But we got no joy from them, so we came to you."

Rolling the smouldering cigar between his fingers, Norling picked a shred of leaf from his lip. "And what makes you imagine I'd be willing to listen?"

"You're already listening," Sherlock grinned. "And you want to know not only how we found you, but why, _oh why_ , we went to all the trouble."

"True," Norling nodded. "Tell me."

"Tea would be nice," Sherlock dropped into the armchair opposite. John frowned, looking back at the two guards who seemed as unsure as he. Shrugging, John moved to a fine brocade sofa and sat on the edge.

Grinning around the cigar, Norling spoke over his shoulder. "Tea for my unexpected guests," he grunted. "Make it good and strong: it might be their last for some time after the police get here."

"You won't call the police," Sherlock crossed his legs elegantly. "You don't need them," he said. "And we're not unexpected."

"No, you're not really a surprise," Norling sat back, linking his fingers. He puffed and grinned widely. "Nor am I going to call the police," he added. "You seem to know everything I'm thinking, so how about returning the favour?"

"As my colleague has already mentioned," Sherlock turned to John. "He's a customer with a complaint."

"You serious?" Norling raised his eyebrows. "You came all this way for customer service?"

John nodded. "It's serious to me," he added. " _And_ I was the one who found your enforcer with his throat cut in the British Museum."

" _So_ …" Norling narrowed his eyes. "That was you, eh?"

"Do you have any idea who might have wanted him dead?" Sherlock was curious. "I'm assuming from the methodology, that this was a business-related incident?"

"I thought the term 'cut-throat' was just a metaphor," John looked taken aback.

"Not in my line of work," Norling puffed meditatively on his Cohiba.

" _Oh_ ," Sherlock sipped the just-arrived tea. "And what line of work might that be?"

###

Charles Shelsher, according to the White pages, lived in Queensway, a quiet, though expensive inner-city area. Hopping off the tube at Bayswater, it took Cate only minutes to find the house. It was a very pleasant largish house with ornate and expensive topiary lined up behind neat railings facing the street. There were welcoming lights in the tall windows. It was the kind of house that spoke of influence and power and the making of decisions. She hoped the University VC would live up to the promise of his home.

Shelsher's wife, Miral, greeted her at the door. " _Cate_ ," she smiled. "How lovely to see you. I assume it's Charles you're here to see?"

Kissing the proffered cheek, Cate returned the smile. "Please, yes," she agreed. "Although this is _ad hoc_ and if you've got guests …"

"Not at all, my dear, come in."

The Vice-Chancellor was in his study and looked up as Miral ushered Cate in. His expression slid down the scale of civility towards mild antagonism.

"Cate," he said when his wife had left them. "What in God's holy name do you think you're doing?" Leaning forward on his desk, Shelsher clasped his hands, adopting a politically-correct look of censure. "One of my most senior academic staff absconding with two students?" he sounded scandalised. "If anything goes wrong, the university will have to disown you completely, you realise this?"

 _Ah_. Clearly there would be no small-talk tonight. Very well; she knew the words to this song.

"You excluded my student, not because she did anything worthy of such draconian treatment, but because you were _told_ to." Cate also leaned forward, unblinking, her gaze demanding. "What the hell do you think _you're_ doing?"

Leaning back, Charles pursed his mouth. "I admit to no external pressure," he said, finally. "It is in the national interest that Miss al Badour leaves these shores, and that is all I will say."

"What national interest, and who told you Medina's name was al Badour?" Cate injected a note of prosecution. "That's not her enrolled student name."

Hooding his eyes, Shelsher refused to be discomforted. He was used to little games like this. "Are you accusing me of something?"

Leaning back in her chair, Cate nodded reflectively. "Yes, Charles," she met his eyes. "I am."

Steepling his fingers against his mouth, Charles looked at her. Cate obviously knew that Mycroft had demanded the girl's removal from the University. If she were guiding the students, then she was able to exercise a certain amount of control over what they did, or did _not_ do. This might be used to the University's advantage if everything went south.

"You can prove nothing," he said.

Cate's heart sank. So it really was Mycroft behind this entire thing. While there had been a chance it was all Charles' doing, she might have hoped to make him change his mind. If Mycroft had put his stamp on things, there was virtually no chance at all.

"The girl is an innocent in this, Charles," Cate spoke quietly. "Have you no scruples? Have you given any thought to her future if we exclude her without apparent cause? In academic terms, she'll be marked for life."

Shelsher had the decency to look down at his desk. "I have no choice in the matter, Cate my dear," he acknowledged. "It has been made quite clear to me that if I didn't remove her, the Chancellor would."

"The Chancellor's a ceremonial figurehead," Cate frowned. "She signs testamurs and attends collegial dinners!"

"Yes, Cate," Charles Shelsher nodded. "She can sign anything." He paused, meaningfully. " _Anything_."

 _Ah_. So there it was. The inevitable _or else_. Mycroft making absolutely sure he got what he wanted. She sighed in frustration.

"If I can get the … _order_ for Medina's exclusion reversed, will you permit her to study with me if she still wants to?"

Screwing up his mouth, Shelsher thought for a moment before nodding briefly.

"Very well, Charles," Cate stood, ready to leave. "I'll see what may be done to exert influence in my own way."

The VC looked up at her words. "Not the papers, Cate," he asked in a pained voice. "I ask only that."

"You have colluded with my husband to put Medina's future at stake, Charles," she frowned. "Do you think you have the right to ask anything?"

Caught in coils of his own making, Shelsher fell unhappily silent.

Leaving the room, Cate walked out into the night.

###

"… And she already knew you had a hand in the girl's exclusion," Shelsher was complying with a demand of immediate contact regarding any movement on this situation, although Mycroft hadn't expected to be given a lead on Cate's whereabouts from such an unexpected source.

"When did she leave?"

"About ten minutes ago, why?" the VC was curious.

"Do you know which way she went?" Mycroft wasn't interested in questions; he needed to track Cate's journey before he lost her in the inner streets.

"Towards Bayswater tube, I believe," Shelsher didn't sound terribly sure. Mycroft knew he had scant time to act.

"I'll speak with you later, Charles."

"Bayswater underground station, immediately," he instructed one of his technical staff supervising the CCTV cameras. Instantly, the view on six of the large screens in the Ops room switched to varying perspectives of the locale. Two were on the roof of the station itself; one along to the left, above the local Sainsbury's; one diagonally across the road on a _Bureau de Change_ , and yet another directly over from the station, atop a Carphone Warehouse outlet. There was one other, down the road to the right, over Barclay's, but there was a sign partially obstructing the view. Mycroft tutted in annoyance.

Rapidly scanning the dark street-scene for a familiar figure, Mycroft felt his pulse quicken. Only a couple of days and he craved her like a drug. Cate was nowhere in sight.

"The platforms," he snapped. And there she was, just boarding a train. Despite the grey, grainy images, Mycroft would recognise the way she walked in the middle of a crowd of hundreds.

"What train is that?" he demanded.

"Circle line, Sir, heading towards Edgeware Road."

"Track it and link to onboard views."

In a dexterous flurry, the camera operator flicked to tunnel views of the rushing train, as well as flashing up consecutive views of the inside of the semi-filled carriages.

"Stop!" Mycroft lifted a finger. "Back one."

Cate stood in a corner by one of the doors, her hand curled lightly around a stanchion, a frown on her face. As she rubbed her eyes, he thought she looked tired.

"Edgeware Road, Sir," the operative advised.

"Follow the woman in the dark coat near the rear doors," Mycroft wanted an additional pair of eyes on this.

"Looks like she's crossing over to the opposite platform, Sir. Circle Line again, heading towards King's Cross."

"Do not lose her," he warned. "I need to know where she exits the system."

"Now at King's Cross, Sir. Target changing to Northern Line, heading for Morden." The camera operator was diligent at least.

"Target debarking train at Angel Islington. The woman appears to be heading towards the West street exit"

Islington? Was Cate so close? "Maintain observation, please," he murmured.

Target heading north along Upper Street."

"Stay with her."

Cate paused by a nondescript faded black door between two restaurants. Selecting a key, she let herself in, closing it behind her. The nearest camera zoomed in on the number.

"72 Upper Street, Sir," the technician sounded vaguely satisfied.

"Excellent work, thank you."

Turning, Mycroft headed back into his private office. Now he knew where Cate was, he needed decide upon the safest way to get her and the students out before MI5 found them too.

###

Malik al Badour was not, as some might think, a butcher. Yes: he had been responsible for a significant number of deaths, but he was a soldier and a leader of soldiers. Yes: he had been the cause of destruction, fear and distress, but in war, such events were inevitable. Was he a bad man? _Probably_. Maybe his soul would be weighed against a feather at the end of things as some of his Egyptian brothers believed, or he would likely fall from the bridge of Paradise into the deep and terrible place beneath. Either way, al Badour had no illusions of his erstwhile goodness. But now, sitting in one of the world's most luxurious hotels, Malik al Badour knew he had an opportunity to be a good father.

Unlike many of his contemporaries, he did not hold with the traditional view of a woman's place in the Arab world. His wife was an intellectual, a poet and an artist before they had married, and Escalla had continued her work since, surprising him constantly with uncompromising views in her writing and her painting. She gave him a place to be something _other_ than a soldier, to leave the violence behind for a while. She fought tooth and nail for the right to do what she wanted, regardless of her sex, and by and large, she was successful. Escalla also fought for the rights of her children to do the same, especially their eldest, Medina.

Medina had always been a precocious learner, gobbling up ideas and information as soon as she could speak. When she learned to read, it was as if each book she opened took her to a new star in the heavens: she had gone through every shred of written material in the house before she was eleven, even those books Malik thought unsuitable for children, and especially daughters. With the reading came the endless questions. Why were there wars? What was the point of having boy's classes and girls classes? How did names work? Why did people get married? Could she change her hair to blonde? Escalla had laughed and explained, most of the time, grabbing him by the hand to make sure he took part in the explaining too.

"But why?" he demanded. "She is asking me questions I don't know the answers to."

"Then you must tell her this," his wife had been absolutely serious, despite her smiles. "Medina must learn to listen to different ideas and opinions, and then to make up her own mind."

"She's asking me questions about boys," he looked sheepish. "What am I supposed to tell her?"

"The _truth_ ," Escalla poked him in the shoulder. "Answer the questions as honestly as you can, don't hide things from her."

"But I'm her _father_ ," he groaned.

Escalla looked at him from beneath her dark lashes. "Then who better to tell her about romance and love?" she teased.

Excelling at her studies, the Principal of her school wanted to enter her for an international scholastic award. Malik had been unsure, Escalla had been adamant.

"If you do not allow her this, I will divorce you and take the children to live with me in the hills where I shall keep goats and write poems about the cowardice of husbands."

"You would not."

Raising both her striking eyebrows, Escalla gave him a look his mother would have recognised.

Of course, Medina won the award, and with it, a scholarship to study at a special college in Istanbul to prepare for the international _baccalauréat._ Escalla's brother and his wife had immediately offered to act as guardians for the girl while she studied abroad. Their offer was a little _too_ prompt, and a fraction _too_ convenient to be entirely spontaneous, but he had simply raised a brow and smiled knowingly. Escalla had squeezed his hand very tightly. Their youngest child had been conceived that night.

Living in Turkey, in one of the most European of Eastern cities, Medina naturally absorbed much of the philosophies and perceptions of the people there, in addition to her language-studies in English and French and Latin. The few years spent there turned the young girl into a seeker of knowledge on a global level. Her one desire before returning home had been to undertake a research degree in either Paris or London. It had fallen to Britain to play host to Medina bint Malik al Badour

Now he was here too. In a luxury hotel, serving his chief the best way he was able, well aware that Britain saw him as no friend of theirs. And his eldest child was in trouble and it was likely his fault. Was he a bad man? _Probably_.

Pulling out his phone, he spoke in rapid Khaliji. He would need help to find Medina in this enormous city: he might be a bad man, but Malik al Badour was not about to find out if he were a bad father.

###

Although she barely slept over the last few days, Cate found that this particular day had been so exhausting, she simply wanted to drop. Maybe she'd get a decent few hours sleep tonight. Both Erik and Medina had crawled off to bed over an hour before, but she stuck her head around his door to ensure he was indeed sleeping. The lump beneath the bedclothes shifted with a quiet mutter, and she smiled, silently closing the door.

Closing the bedroom door behind her, Cate changed rapidly into an old pair of pyjamas before sliding into her half of the double bed. Medina was well asleep, one of her arms crooked over her head.

Resting her face against the cool of the pillow, Cate felt her limbs slowly relax … she drifted.

It was very dark and still when the noise snapped her awake. Remaining motionless, she tried to focus on whatever the sound had been. A car backfiring? A fox investigating someone's bins? Holding her breath, Cate waited for the next sound.

It was a bit of a surprise when the next sound was Mycroft's quiet voice.

"I know you're awake; there's no reason to pretend otherwise."

Rolling over, Cate lifted her head to see her husband sitting casually in the armchair in the corner. He had switched on the tall lamp behind him, a dull enough light, but sufficient for the job at hand. Perfectly relaxed, he was wearing one of his preferred Gieves and Hawkes pin-stripes, a navy one. Immaculately dressed as always, his pocket-square was, nevertheless, the oddest shade of chartreuse. Frowning, she wondered why he'd have chosen that particular combination. She looked at the bedside clock. It was just after three.

"What are you doing here?" she asked groggily, leaning back to see if Medina was still asleep. She was. "In the middle of the night?"

"You wanted me here," crossing his legs, Mycroft sat back, a look of mild inquiry on his face. "So I came." He rested linked his fingers on his knee and stared at her.

"Did I?" Cate dragged herself into a sitting position. "I don't recall asking you to come."

"Not in so many words," he smiled faintly. "But you want me here now, don't you?"

Looking at his calm face, Cate smiled. Yes, she did want him here. Having not spoken to Mycroft properly since that awful argument of several nights ago, the occasional wave of misery had slapped her breathless. It was good to speak normally with him. Part of her wished they were alone.

"How did you get in?" she asked.

"Through there," he pointed to the open window. So that's what the strange noise had been.

"Mycroft, we're three floors up," Cate frowned again. Something was odd, here.

"Ladders," he nodded. "Useful things, ladders."

To Cate's knowledge, Mycroft had never been up a ladder in his life. Very strange.

"And now you're here," she said, sliding to sit on the edge of the bed. "What do you want to talk about?"

"You knew I would find out where you were, didn't you?"

Cate shrugged. "I'm not surprised," she yawned. "I wondered if you might want to keep tabs on me. It's your thing."

"My _thing_?" his voice was doubtful.

"Yes," Cate looked at him. "Your _thing_. You like to know what's going on all the time."

"Only because I'm utterly paranoid about potential disaster," he said.

"You admit to unreasonable paranoia?" Cate smiled. This was novel.

"Oh _yes_ ," Mycroft swapped legs. "I'm known for it," he smiled deprecatingly. "Sherlock will tell you: I used to drive mother bonkers with it."

Tilting her head, Cate grinned. This was not like him at all.

"Now that you know where we are," she asked, thinking. "What are you going to do about it?"

Pausing, Mycroft made a face. "Probably stalk you from afar," he said. "Though what I _really_ want to do is throw you over my shoulder and drag you back to my cave, but you probably wouldn't stand for that, would you?" he looked interested. "Would you?"

Shaking her head in disbelief, Cate stared at him. "Have you been drinking?"

"I don't need alcohol when I'm thinking about you," he replied. "You intoxicate me."

Her heart rushed at his words. "I intoxicate you?"

"You drive me insane, Cate," his voice was gravel and sex and her insides melted into bubbling lava. It was impossible to speak; hard enough to breathe.

"And … so … what are you going to do next?" Controlling the race of her heart was easier thought than done.

"Officially or unofficially?"

"Either. _Both_."

" _Officially_ ," he looked grave. "I shall maintain a watching brief and will step in as soon as I am confident of success." Mycroft smiled imperiously. "You won't like it one bit."

Cate stared at the man she'd married, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. This was so unlike him; not his style at all.

"And unofficially?" she had to ask.

"Unofficially," he stood, smoothing his waistcoat and straightening his cuffs. "I will do something like this." Stepping close, his fingers slid through the tangle of her hair, tugging her face to his.

"You are mine, and you will _stay_ mine," he growled, his mouth finding hers, demanding her absolute surrender and acquiescence. She shook with desire so potent it was painful.

Gasping, Cate jerked awake; her heartbeat a thunder in her ears, her lungs heaving. It was several seconds before she realised she was alone. No husband. Looking to her right, she saw Medina was still fast asleep, that the window was closed tight, and that the corner chair was empty. Lying back, her heart still pounding, Cate realised that she would have to go a great deal further than Islington to leave Mycroft behind.

###

They thought the best time to go out was during the morning rush-hour, when the tubes would be packed to brimming, the roads congested and with rapidly-moving bodies virtually covering every pavement. Cate hadn't wanted either Medina or Erik to leave the relative safety of the flat, but they needed clean clothes and some personal items. She had suggested that _she_ buy the clothes, only to find herself on the receiving end of two very suspect stares. Neither of them wanted to stay behind while the other was in potential danger, and Cate dare not let them out of her sight. Thus it was that on this particular Thursday morning, the three of them scurried into the Upper Street entrance of the N1 shopping mall at The Angel.

"No credit cards, don't sign anything, or speak to anyone," Cate muttered, discretely handing each of them several hundred pounds in small denominations. "Try not to look at any security camera," she added. "And _whatever_ you do, don't attract any attention."

"What happens if we get separated?" Medina was concerned. She wasn't much keen on this cloak-and-dagger existence, but realised there was little alternative at the moment.

"We meet back here in twenty minutes," Cate looked around. "Doesn't matter if any of us get lost, that's going to have to be enough time for you to get what you need and get back here – we can't risk being spotted."

Nodding a nervous agreement, Erik grabbed Medina's hand and they took off towards H&M, reckoning it to be the easiest places to get everything in one go. Cate went looking for the nearest Sainsbury's – may as well get some supplies while she was there. Ducking her face away from every potential CCTV vantage-point, she was back just inside the mall exit well within the twenty-minute deadline. Trying not to look as if she were trying not to look anxious, Cate's eyes flicked to her watch in increasingly brief pauses. Where were they? Lifting her face, she risked a quick scan on the main thoroughfare, feeling a wash of relief as she saw the two of them walking rapidly towards her. Too rapidly. Looking over their shoulders, Cate saw two policemen with radios at their mouths, staring at their little group. _Of course,_ she kicked herself. Mycroft would have involved the police as soon as he worked out they were all together – all three of them probably had their photos plastered across London by now.

"We go straight to the tube station," Cate muttered, grabbing their elbows and pulling them with her out of the entrance. There were two more police there, also on their radios.

"The other way," she said. "We'll cut through the underground car park and double-back to the station that way."

Moving with increasing speed but not yet running, the three of them skirted around the main curve of the outer building, locating an entrance to the underground parking area.

"Down here, quick!" Cate led the way, running now, to make sure the police never actually caught up. Flying across the semi-full space, they crossed to the far side entrance, before running up several flights of stairs before emerging back onto Upper Street. They could see the Underground sign down the road. Keeping their faces down, they walked quickly towards the entrance.

"Why not just go to the flat and hide?" Medina looked worried.

"And how long do you think we'd be safe once the police begin a door-to-door search for us?" Cate shook her head. "No. We need to lead them away from here as far away as we can."

"Here," Cate held out a dark woolly hat to each of them, pulling one on herself. "Thought this might make us blend in a little more."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Erik took one look at Cate's hat and burst out laughing. It had small, woolly, cat's ears. The combination of the hat, her old college scarf, jeans and dark jacket, and the Professor looked like a student herself.

"I didn't have time to be _picky_ ," she muttered, swiping her Oyster card through the station-entry. Looking swiftly back over her shoulder, her breath stalled as she saw three policemen heading in after them. _Hell_.

"Down the stairs, fast as you can," she said, taking Medina's hand and pulling the girl along with her, Cate scooted down to the platforms as fast as she could without actually running. A waiting train was just about to close its doors as they all jumped on. As this was the Northern Line, the train was heading out to Barnet or somewhere – they could get off at Euston and head back, or run up through the University and … _shit_ … _there were police on the train_ …

"Don't look up," Cate said slowly. "There are two policemen at the far end of the carriage, and I bet you anything it's us they're looking for. We get off without causing any fuss at the next stop, Okay?"

The next stop was Tottenham Court Road. Sliding carefully out of the doors and walking in the very middle of the crowd, they moved slowly up the stairs and escalators out onto the far end of the main road itself. Ironically, Cate knew this area quite well; she had been coming here a couple of nights each week for the last few months. Kwan's dojo was just off Great Russell Street.

Peering around, looking for the neon-yellow high visibility jackets the police were so conveniently wearing these days, it was Erik's turn to yank the two women back against the shadow of the wall.

"There's _four_ of them out there," he hissed. " _Jesus_ – where are they all _coming_ from?"

"Hello, _Cate_ ," a very familiar voice sounded off to the right. "Something amiss?"

Looking around, she saw a friendly face. "Hello, Sherlock," she smiled.

" _Cate_?" John was beside them too. He looked at the three of them, his eyebrows rising as he saw the expression on their faces. "What's going on?"

"The police are after us – no time to explain – I have to keep these two," Cate nodded at Medina and Erik, "away from the law."

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock looked intently at his sister-in-law. "Is Mycroft involved in any of this?" he asked.

"He's responsible for the police," Cate swallowed; this was it. All Sherlock had to do was phone his brother and it was over …

"Anybody wearing a watch?" he asked brightly, removing his own watch and stuffing it in his coat pocket. "If you want to know the time, always ask a policeman …" Winking at Cate as he stepped directly into the path of the oncoming Metropolitan officers, Sherlock smiled broadly, suddenly delighted that these representatives of the law were there to assist him.

Taking the hint, John ushered them in the opposite direction.

"I have no idea what you're up to," he said as he led them around a couple of large stone pillars and away down a side-exit. "But are you sure you want to get in Mycroft's way?"

"Who's this 'Mycroft' person?" Erik was suddenly very curious.

"My husband," Cate looked weary.

"And how is he responsible for all the police?" Erik stopped walking and stared at her.

"Don't stop," Cate pulled his arm. "There could be more police any second."

"I'd really like to know how your husband is mixed up with the coppers in all this mess," Erik's expression suggested he was not about to be put off.

"Can this wait until we get back to the flat?" she asked.

"What flat?" John was looking increasingly puzzled.

"We're all on the run from the law," Erik peered over his shoulder. "Including the Professor," he added. "We're hiding out in north London."

John stopped. Turning to Cate, he stared. "You're not … you've left ..?"

Turning to answer, Cate saw two more of the high-vis yellow jackets appear behind them. There was nothing else to do …

" _Run!_ " she shouted. There was only one place she could think of going now.


	6. Chapter 6

_The Arts of Korea – Lestrade of the Met – Parker of MI5 – An Agreement in Principle – A Conversation with Master Kwan – The Fractal Heart._

 

#

#

Grabbing Medina's arm and ignoring the police-officers' shouts to stop, Cate charged headlong across Oxford Street, dodging between cars, taxies and the occasional big red bus as she navigated transversely through the stream of traffic, risking life-and-limb and the dreadful ire of rush-hour commuters.

"Come _ON_ ," she turned, waiting for John and Erik to catch up. "I know how to lose them, _quick!_ "

Before either of the men had reached the spot, Cate and Medina had already taken to their heels, flying along the uneven pavement, scarves trailing behind them like battle colours.

"Bloody women," John muttered, accelerating to maintain pace with the lanky twenty-something beside him. Fortunately, keeping up with Sherlock's mad dashes had brought his street-sprinting ability to a fine peak. Sucking the cool morning air into his lungs, he stepped up the pace, knowing that if anything happened to Cate while he was in the same post-code, Mycroft's response would likely be excessive

The two officers were attempting to follow their track, but the lights had gone green and traffic was zipping along nicely. One of them spoke into his radio.

"Where the hell's she going?" Running beside him, the younger, taller Erik was able to see over the heads of oncoming pedestrians.

"There's a side street on the left," John knew it quite well. It had been one of the places – _one_ of them – which had afforded him an opportunity to get royally thumped after Sherlock had danced beyond the reach of the thug they'd cornered. Not being in the same class of nimbleness as the younger Holmes, John had copped an eye-watering smack to the jaw. Mind you, the man had gone down in the next second, but still. Additionally, the place was only a couple of streets west of the British Museum, which offered a more recent and entirely joyous memory all of its own.

Following the two women down Bainbridge Street, all four ducked and weaved around parked cars and large, erratically located rubbish containers. There was still no sign of the police, but Cate realised they only had minutes before they'd be caught on the street. So they had to get off it. And there was only one place around here that beckoned now: Master Kwan's dojang.

There was a skinny little alleyway linking Bainbridge and Great Russell, and it was down this dark passageway that Cate headed. Rushing past shuttered doors and skipping around the hazards of urban parking, she made directly for a barely noticed archway, recessed, and with only the most minimal of signage, shouldering open an unremarkable grey door and ushered them all through.

Like the famous blue box of Gallifrey, this place seemed much larger on the inside. Spreading out as a massive square hall, the dojang was divided into several discrete training areas, with the largest space, the central mats, being the main instructional facility. John, Medina and Erik stood just inside the door staring around, while Cate spotted the one person she wanted to see.

"Master Kwan," wasting no time, she walked over to him, bowing slightly. "I am sorry to trouble you, but we need to avoid some people and would like to use your side door."

The small Korean man looked her directly in the eye. Cate was certainly not one of his longest-practicing students, nor was she the best, but she was one of the most determined, and he admired that characteristic. She was a little impetuous, yes, but part of him liked that too, although he'd never tell her. He knew she worked as a teacher, but looking over her shoulder at the three people with her, and recognising the expression in their eyes as one of anxiety, Kwan wondered in what else this woman might be involved. He looked thoughtful.

Unable to wait for Kwan to deliberate, and knowing every second was vital, Cate placed her fingers on his arm and began rattling away in Hanyu. The old man's eyebrows went up, but he listened in silence as she explained that the two young ones were her students; that they had been unfairly treated by the law; and that she was trying to keep them safe until such time as a more formal and legal process might determine their situation.

At the sound of the Professor's voice in an unknown Asian language, Erik and Medina stared at each other before turning to John.

"How many different languages does she _speak_?" Erik asked. "She did this a couple of days ago with Arabic when she started arguing with Medina's dad."

"Arabic?" John raised his eyebrows. "Lots, apparently," John looked at the two young people beside him. "What's going on?" he demanded. "I find the three of you about to be nabbed by some of London's finest, then I get sucked into running away from said Finest, which probably makes me an accomplice or something, and now we're in some martial arts place and God knows what Cate's telling that guy," John shook his head. " _What is going on_?"

"It's a long story," Medina looked uncomfortable. "But it's to do with me getting kicked out of Uni because of who my father is."

" _And_?" John waited for the punch-line. "Who is he?"

"Malik al Badour," she said.

"Never heard of him," John shook his head. "What's he done?"

Looking bemused, Medina shrugged. She was about to add to her response when the doors behind them slammed open and two, somewhat breathless, police-officers stepped swiftly inside.

"Hey, _you_!" The first one pointed at Medina, clearly recognising her. "Stay right where you are!" Erik looked at the man with interest before moving in front of her. Turning their heads at the sound of the banging door, Cate and Kwan wore identical frowns. Cate also stepped forward, an odd expression of antagonism lighting her face. Kwan's features gained little expression at all. He went very still.

John didn't know who to look at, but reckoned the policemen were most likely to make the first move. He probably had about three seconds to make up his mind, but after Kandahar, three seconds was a lifetime. Still unsure of what Cate was actually up to, what the precise situation was, or why she was even involved with these two kids, he realised he trusted her judgement. That he also trusted Mycroft's judgement not to marry a fool was beside the point. Moving the boy away, John stood in front of them all.

"What seems to be the problem, Officer?" he asked, not entirely innocently. After giving Erik and Medina a fierce 'keep out of this' look, Cate came and stood beside him. It was only when she felt a light brush against her arm that she realised Kwan was taking pole position.

" _Indeed_ ," the little Korean man greeted the officers. " _Is_ there a problem, Gentlemen?" he asked. "My name is Kwan and this is my dojang. How may I assist you?"

"Kwan _Jungnim_ ," Cate touched the old master's shoulder respectfully. "This is not something you have to deal with."

"Ah, but it is, _Student_ ," the aged Korean smiled politely and nodded. Cate ducked her head, also smiling. She had just been put neatly in her place.

"There's a warrant of arrest out for those two," the taller of the policemen pointed to Medina and Erik. "They've been evading detention and are persons of interest in a matter of national security."

"But they are _children_ ," Kwan lifted his hands in disbelief.

"Please step away, Sir," the younger of the officers said, beginning to walk towards Medina.

John, Cate, Erik, and, most significantly, Kwan, tensed.

The policemen began to suspect all might not be well.

The tall one walked towards Medina.

Erik stepped forward, protective. John pushed him aside and blocked the policeman's path.

The other officer reached for his collapsible baton as Cate turned to face him.

Kwan lifted his arms and bent at the knee.

The tall officer attempted to push past John, who grabbed his yellow jacket and started to swing him away from the girl.

Erik yelped and ducked beyond the reach of the policeman's grasping fingers as John put the representative of the law on the deck.

The second policeman went to his colleague's aid, only to find his baton flying gracefully through the air, at the same time as Kwan's grasp of his wrist and shoulder assisted him onto the floor. Placing his foot almost tenderly on the younger man's neck, Kwan kept him motionless beneath his sandal.

" _No_ , John! You can't get involved!" Cate stepped in and caught the rising wrist of the policeman as John prepared to persuade the officer to stay down in a more permanent fashion. He stopped, frowning at her words.

Capitalising on the doctor's momentary hesitation, Cate swivelled, pulling the officer onto his feet faster than he could balance himself, making it entirely too easy for her to put him back down again, this time with an elbow in his solar plexus which had him curled up, gasping for every breath. "I'm so very _very_ sorry," she apologised, mortified, as the policeman strained to stare up at her, teary-eyed, red-faced and wheezing, wrapped around his pain.

"Thank you, Master Kwan," she said, grabbing Medina and Erik's hands and backing away towards a small side door leading out onto Great Russell Street. "Thank you John, for your help. Please thank Sherlock for me. We'll be going now."

"Hold on," he said, watching the three runaways. "I'm coming with you."

"John, you _can't_ ," Cate shook her head. "There's no reason for you to get into the same kind of trouble as us."

Looking down at the two police officers, John observed that neither of them wore the happiest of expressions.

"I'd say it was a bit late to worry about that," he said. "Let's go."

Looking at Kwan, Cate didn't know what to say, so she simply bowed low.

" _Ha!"_ the old Korean scoffed. "Let us see if you are so respectful when I have you preparing for your Black belt!" He laughed shortly. "Now _go_ , before these two very large officers overpower me and I am forced to pretend to be an old man."

Unable to avoid a grin, Cate led her little crew out the side door and away from the clutches of the Law.

 

###

"They did _what_?" Lestrade was not in the best of moods on hearing the officers' report. "An ancient Korean, a woman and a couple of kids?"

The two officers looked shamefaced. "The youngsters weren't involved, Sir," said the older man. "But there was another bloke, around medium height, blonde, carried himself like a squaddie."

" _John_ ," the other officer added. "The woman called him 'John'."

Clamping a hand over his eyes, the Inspector groaned loudly. "So what did this 'John' chap do?" he asked, not really wanting to hear. It had to be John Watson. This meant that … _oh God_ … Sherlock was probably involved as well. Lestrade groaned again. First Mycroft puts the heavy word on him to find the girl, and now the younger Holmes might be cheering for the other side. It was all a bit much.

"Not very much actually, Sir," the officer looked sheepish. "He pulled my jacket."

Blinking slowly and taking a deep, silent breath, Greg Lestrade counted to ten.

"He pulled your jacket."

"Yessir."

Reaching for the phone on his desk, Lestrade rang Mycroft Holmes.

 

###

"… And I assume you were able to follow them back to their den?" Donald Parker flicked through a handful of papers, eventually affixing a neat signature to the final one. He looked up.

"We were able to track them to the Korean's training gym, Sir," the operative said. "But the police were also there and it was a case of either interfering with them and risking our cover, or tracking the targets when they exited the building."

"And the problem with that was ..?" the Director-General of MI5 was unsmiling.

"Two of us," the agent said. "Three exits. They took the one we didn't know about."

" _Damnation._ " Parker was unambiguously frustrated. "How can a teacher and two college students stay undercover like this?

"The woman _is_ married to Holmes, Sir," the agent shrugged. "Maybe there's more here than meets the eye?"

"Time to find out, then."

Reaching for the phone on his desk, Parker rang Mycroft Holmes.

 

###

Malik al Badour was very good at what he did. And what he was doing right now, was standing by, waiting for his Leader to agree or not, at least in principle, to the deal before him.

Hassan bin Khalid stared across the table at the British businessman.

"Do we have an agreement?" he asked.

"A contract will be delivered for your perusal and signature this afternoon," the businessman nodded, a pleasant enough smile on his face. "I trust that will be acceptable?"

"Perfectly." The Arab leader stood, shaking the Londoner's hand, sealing their pact in the traditional European manner. Turning, he left the room in an unhurried and self-assured pace. He had done what he had come to this country to do; his staff could handle the details.

"Do you know where to bring the contract?" al Badour was taking care of some of those minutia.

"My people will take care of everything," the Londoner nodded affably, straightening one of his silk cuffs. "Is there anything else I might be able to arrange for you?" he asked, a knowing smile hovering at the edge of his mouth. "A discreet visit to a casino, perhaps? A pretty girl or two ..?"

Grinning broadly, Malik al Badour laughed. "I have no time for the perils of gambling," he said. "And if my wife _ever_ discovered I had been with another woman, I would die in my sleep that very night."

"I have the same problem," the Briton smiled and nodded. "Although I am fortunate in that I need look at no other woman."

"You are a lucky man, then," al Badour nodded also. "You have family?"

The Londoner smiled. "A son," he grinned. "Who will one day take my place, allowing me to take my beautiful wife away to peace and quiet. You?"

"I have a son also," he said. "And two loving daughters to fill a father's heart with delight."

"Then we are both lucky men," the Briton acknowledged.

Smiling still, Malik al Badour walked out of the room, following in the wake of his Leader and Chief.

Behind him, James Norling extracted a large Cohiba from his breast pocket and, sitting back in his comfortable chair, took time to smoke it properly.

 

###

This was unexpected.

Mycroft's Level One surveillance had yielded some surprising results, and his brain was currently processing the permutations. It was either incredible coincidence – something to which he rarely allotted the slightest credence – or there were other influences at play here.

His thinking went like this: Hassan bin Khalid, next-in-line in a powerful Arab dynasty, arrives with entourage, apparently contemplating an arms-deal with a British-based supplier. This in itself, while unusual, was not wholly out of the ordinary. Accompanying this heir-apparent is Malik al Badour, warlord and advisor to bin Khalid's father, the obvious assumption being that al Badour's experience and understanding of the arms-business would ensure any potential deal would be advantageous to the House of Khalid. While in London, al Badour's favourite eldest daughter visits him at the Dorchester, squired by the young and presentable Erik Norling. The three are observed taking breakfast together in al Badour's suite.

So far, so straightforward. Now things began to convolute.

MI5, spy-takers and upholders of British espionage upon domestic soil, also an interested party in the bin Khalid group, are observed to be tracking al Badour, and, by extension, his daughter and her young man who are seen talking to Professor Adin-Holmes …

 _Cate_. Mycroft's face hardened.

… Are seen talking to _his wife_ , who shortly thereafter is taken into custody by MI5 after interfering with two of their operatives and thus permitting her students to avoid arrest. His wife leaves the following day … _Cate_ … vanishing, as do young Norling and the girl. Indications that they were probably together, likely in Islington, were at that moment being confirmed by his people.

 _Next_ ; Cate, Norling junior, and al Badour's daughter narrowly avoid detention by Lestrade's men outside of Tottenham Court Road tube-station, an event facilitated by – and this beggared belief – his own brother and John Watson. Watson then absconds with the three fugitives, the ensuing chase ending in what might best be described as a minor scuffle with two policemen in a Korean martial-arts dojang, during which, one officer had, according to Lestrade, "his jacket pulled", the other receiving a punch from Cate, immediately following which he also received her apparently heart-felt apology. The Proprietor of the dojang was currently awaiting his questioning.

At this point, Mycroft felt the need to rub his eyes. Was there something in the water that engendered temporary madness in his family? How could something as simple as a visiting royal on a shopping expedition for guns degenerate into such a morass? Lifting a sheet of paper with the latest Intel, his thoughts refocused upon the tenuous connection between al Badour and the Norling boy. Not so tenuous as might first be considered, especially after this afternoon's meeting between bin Kahlid, al Badour _and Erik Norling's father_ …

What linked the Norlings, father and son, with Malik al Badour and his daughter?

Laying the report flat on the desk before him, Mycroft's rested his elbows on either side, hands together, fingertips tapping against his mouth as he toyed with the connections and implications. There was also the matter of questioning the Korean – he had insisted on the police leaving him here – the less Cate was implicated in all this, the better.

Walking down to the interrogation rooms, Mycroft reviewed the old man's file. It was rather interesting. Original passport and migration visa forms; banking details, tax-returns for the last seven years and business charter, and that was it; nothing remotely personal or in any way connected to his life before arriving in Britain, some nineteen years previously. Mr Kwan was something of a mystery. Mycroft smiled: in today's technological _alles zu teilen,_ he rather admired mysteries. They required application.

"Good afternoon … Mr Kwan." And thus it began.

The old man raised his brows slightly and gave a fractional nod.

Mycroft revised his previous assessment. Not only a mystery but also lacking any evidence of concern. He might have to change this.

"You know my wife, I believe," Mycroft sat in the opposite chair.

Kwan looked mildy curious. "I do?" he said, pleasantly enough.

"Her name is Cate," Mycroft continued. "She is one of your students."

"Cate is your wife?" Kwan's brows crawled up his head; a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "Would you prefer tremendous congratulations or sympathetic understanding?"

Mycroft remained expressionless, but it was with a little effort. Clearly the Korean knew Cate quite well.

"She is in trouble," Mycroft said, quietly. "Would you like to help her?"

Looking down at the table top between them, Kwan was thoughtful. "Cate is an exceptional person," he said slowly. "Your wife does not require my help."

"Yet you obstructed the police in order to allow her to escape your premises?"

"That was for the children," Kwan nodded, thinking. "Not for her."

Opening the slim folder in front of him, Mycroft looked as if her were reading. "You are a permanent resident in Britain," he said. "But you have never taken citizenship," he paused. "Why is that?"

Kwan relaxed back into his uncomfortable wooden seat, folding his arms and offering a strange little smile. "Do I need to?"

Lifting his brows marginally, Mycroft closed the file, returning to stare into Kwan's dark eyes. "A foreign national using violence against British police-officers during the performance of their duties? It might have been better for you if you had," he said, casually.

Laughing softly, Kwan shook his head. "You will have to work harder than that for your pay if you want to frighten me," he said.

For the first time, Mycroft's bearing eased. He rather liked this old warrior.

"What's she like as a student?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Cate?" Kwan met Mycroft's gaze. He smiled properly. "She is … unpredictable."

"Yes; she is rather," Mycroft folded his arms, mirroring the Korean. "Is she a good learner?"

Relaxing, Kwan smiled again, nodding. "Cate accepts nothing but the highest standards from herself, which can be challenging, but she has an honourable soul and her heart is purposeful," he said. "She is braver than most, more impulsive than others, and occasionally reckless, yet I would not trade her for fifty masters."

Mycroft felt his heart thud. He would not willingly trade her either. "I agree," he spoke quietly, his thoughts elsewhere.

"Then what did you do to drive her away?"

Lifting his head sharply, Mycroft frowned at the old Korean. "What do you mean?"

Kwan looked patient, as if he were instructing a particularly dense pupil. "You are a clever and powerful man," he explained slowly. "You have all _this_ ," he waved in the air around his head, "and yet she does not come to you, _her husband_ , when she is in trouble?" he asked, pointedly. "Why is this?"

Feeling that the situation was escaping him a little, Mycroft stayed impassive.

" _Ah_ ," Kwan nodded. "So _that_ is why."

Avoiding the bait, Mycroft simply stared at the old man. "You are in trouble with the police," he said, finally. "You intervened with the course of the law."

"I am not in trouble with the police or someone would have charged me by now," Kwan said. "And even if they do in the future, I am an old man," he sighed, resigned. "There is only so much trouble I can pay for."

Despite himself, Mycroft felt his lip twitch. No wonder Cate liked her teacher. He did too. There was nothing sinister here, he decided. Kwan could go. He closed the folder and was about to stand when the Korean lifted his hand. Mycroft found himself pausing.

"May I offer a clever and powerful man some advice?" Kwan asked softly.

His attention engaged, Mycroft sat back, examining Kwan's face. "Go on."

"Cate is like mountain mist," he paused, "swift and invigorating, yet also elusive and fragile." The old man smiled kindly. "Impossible to recapture once it is gone," he added. "Find her and tell her she is the beat of your heart."

Mycroft stared down at his hands for several seconds. "It may already be too late for that," he said, slowly.

"Do you love her?" Kwan asked. "Do you?"

Lifting his eyes, Mycroft looked bleak.

"Then find her and tell her," Kwan nodded in satisfaction. "She needs to hear this from you."

Standing, Mycroft looked down into the strangely serene face of the old Hapkido master. Leaving the room, the elder Holmes felt marginally relieved the man wanted to stay in Britain. Lord knows what he might have said otherwise.

 

###

"It's confirmed, Sir," the admin turned from his desk. "The lease was taken out in the name of Catherine Adin, at the beginning of last week."

 _Cate_.

"Thank you," Mycroft nodded, his hand tightening. He could stand it no longer; he would have to see her before he went mad with uncertainty.

"Do we have a schedule yet?"

"Only one regular route, Sir, so far."

"It will suffice."

 

###

Ensuring she had the woollen cat-hat pulled down tightly around her ears, Cate wrapped her old college scarf around the lower half of her face, lifted up her collar, and stuck both hands in her pockets. Hardly elegant, but needs must. Stepping out of the flat, she kept her face deliberately averted from the CCTV cameras the three of them had been able to identify, and, staring at the pavement, she moved swiftly towards Sainsbury's, taking the increasingly familiar shortcut through the basement-level floor of the multi-story car park.

Stepping over the low concrete boundary-wall, Cate felt something was odd. It wasn't until she realised there was a complete absence of cars down here – a level usually filled to capacity by this time of the day – that she wondered if repairs were going on at the entrance to the facility. Something was obviously stopping them from coming down here.

She was well into the centre of the vast and empty space when she heard the first vehicle driving down the ramp. Paying it no heed, she kept her head down and made for the exit at the far side of the level.

The noise of the descending car seemed to be getting very close and she moved towards the perimeter to allow it plenty of room to pass her without interference. It was only when she heard coming even closer, that she bothered to look up.

A large, black Jaguar swept to a smooth halt scant meters away. Cate's heart thumped. She knew the car. Hard not to, considering how many times she'd been in it. So: he'd found her. It had only been a matter of time.

The rear door opened and Mycroft stepped out, as ordered and unemotional as if he were visiting his tailor. Wearing the same coat he had worn the day he'd come looking for her at the dance studio, the scarlet lining flashed briefly as he moved. Mycroft took care to maintain an equable perspective of this meeting. Part of him wanted to rage: to bundle Cate into the car and safely home. Another part wanted to wrap her inside his coat; to hold her close and talk until the ache of her absence went away. Yet still a third part wondered how he might use her meddlesome actions to his advantage. The problem was deciding which part to air first.

The morning was cold and Cate noticed he was also wearing the low-blue silk scarf she had found for him. His leather-gloved hands rested across the top of the ubiquitous umbrella as on the hilt of a sword as he stood, looking at her. His expression was measured. They stared at each other in silence.

Mycroft had never seen her this way; dressed as one of her students. She seemed strange, less Cate and more gypsy, her plain, dark clothing fitting her more for life in the streets than in the Academy. Yet still; she was – how did the Korean put it – the beat of his heart.

"Cate," he asked eventually, tilting his head. "What are you doing?"

Standing several feet away, she could see his eyes and the shadows beneath them. The timbre of his voice when he spoke so intimately and, yes, _almost_ _menacingly_ , lifted her chin and made her breathing spike. She would not bow to pressure, no matter how skilfully it was applied.

"Hello, darling," she met his cool gaze. "I'm fine, thank you for asking."

Listening to her voice for the first time in over a week turned his pulse traitor. He was glad Cate was no nearer or she'd hear its reckless pounding.

"You play a dangerous game, my love," he said, slowly.

""I'm not playing anything, Mycroft."

"Everyone is looking for you, you realise?"

Nodding, Cate shrugged. "I suspected that might be the case," she acknowledged.

"How are they?" he asked.

"Erik and Medina?" She was surprised. That Mycroft was concerned with their welfare seemed incongruous when, because of the father, he was actively trying to send the girl home and ruin her future.

"Apart from being anxious, lonely and utterly confused at what they've done wrong, they're actually managing quite well."

"Is John with you?"

"John returned to Baker Street as soon as he saw we were safe and knew where we were staying," she said. "I don't want you to involve him in this."

Shaking his head, Mycroft was already far beyond worrying about John Watson.

"How are you holding up?" His voice had lost its cold edge. Cate fancied she heard a warmer note of concern.

It was no use. Mycroft had promised himself he would not weaken; he would not relent, but she was a handful of feet away and it felt like miles. All he wanted to do was put his arms around his wife and stop feeling as if the centre of him was numb. But he couldn't. Not yet.

"Apart from being anxious, lonely and confused about what I've done wrong, I'm fine," she said, watching his expression. She hated the invisible wall between them; it was like being trapped in glass.

"It doesn't have to be like this," he said, relaxing his stance a fraction and stepping closer. "You can end this any time you choose."

"It's not up to me," she shook her head. "It never was."

"Of course it's up to you," the faintest snap. "Who else can decide?"

"This will be over when the problem is resolved and not before," Cate sighed tiredly. "You could stop this in a moment by rescinding Medina's exclusion and ergo, her visa problem."

Mycroft shook his head. He wanted the entire al Badour line out of the country. The man was simply too dangerous to be given any realm of freedom in Britain. Remove his favourite daughter and remove a key reason for him to return.

"I can't do that," he looked at his shoes. "I want no cause for her father to be here."

"So you admit it was at your behest that Charles Shelsher excluded Medina from the University?" It was more of a statement than a question. Cate had long since realised the only person who could force Shelsher's hand so very quietly and privately, would be Mycroft.

He had the decency to look reflective. "For the greater good."

"The greater good?" Cate suddenly felt a strange calm. "I refuse to believe that ruining a young woman's future can contribute to any kind of 'good'."

"So this is all about the girl and her young man?" Mycroft was hard-put to accept Cate would jeopardise everything in her life for such an abstract principle.

"It has always been about them," Cate was earnest. "They have no power or knowledge; they are the innocents in this mess," she shook her head again. "They asked for my help."

"And, _naturally_ ," Mycroft took a step closer. "You had to agree to give it?"

"Yes," Cate looked up into his eyes. "Someone had to."

"But why you?" He was close enough now to see the tension on her face and the unusual pallor of her skin. Remembering Kwan's words, Mycroft saw the old man had been right: an honourable soul, yet elusive and fragile. His hand clenched inside his glove. _My love_.

"Because they had nobody else to ask."

"Cate," he hesitated, seeking the best words. "Don't do this."

"I am doing this, Mycroft," her voice was low and resigned. "I have to see this through."

" _Darling_ ," he was so close now, he could almost feel her warmth. When she looked up at him, he saw the dark of her eyes and the paleness of her cheeks. But she was so wrapped in scarf and hat that half of her face was obscured. Reaching slowly forward, Mycroft tugged the ridiculous knitted cap from her head, dark coils spilling forward as her hair came free. The intensity of the urge to comb his fingers through it; to pull her close … staggered him. He cleared his throat and stepped away, slamming his charging emotions down. If he kissed her, he would crumble and consider the world well lost to have her in his arms.

As he leaned closer, Cate's heart raced. For an infinitesimal moment, she thought he was going to wrap his arms around her and make the world go away … instead, she watched his face grow expressionless and distant as he stood back. He didn't want to touch her, which was as well, for if he kissed her, she would crumble and cling to him until she was old and grey. Her chest tight with regret, she stepped away; away from his eyes and the presence of him. She could not stay here, this close, feeling like this.

Taking an abrupt step backwards, Cate's eyes glittered with nameless passion. "Don't come looking for me again," she said, her voice taut with stress. "Unless you change your mind about Medina." Turning on her heel, Cate strode off towards the far exit.

Watching her walk away, Mycroft felt his spirits sink. He had no idea when he'd see her again. _Impossible to recapture_. Or even _if_. He wanted to stop her; to call her back, make Cate listen to reason, but he could say nothing she wanted to hear.

 

###

Lying on his back in the unwelcoming bed in the silent bedroom, Mycroft readied himself for yet another restless, sleepless night. How many had it been now? Yet he still had to function; he had to maintain the sham that everything was normal. Closing his eyes, his brain immediately began its frenetic dance; a monstrous waltz of swaying grotesquery: Cate hurt, missing, _dead_. That he might one day see nothing in her face for him but aversion … His eyes snapped open, remembering. Clambering out of bed, he hunted for his coat, flung carelessly over the back of a high bedroom chair. It would be in the pocket. Searching, his fingers located his prize and in a second he held Cate's silly woolly hat between his hands. Pressing it to his face, Mycroft inhaled her scent, fresh and familiar. His skin prickled with a desire for more.

Returning to the bed, he held the thing against his pillow. Breathing in the smell of her, Mycroft finally felt his body give in to the comfort of sleep.

And he dreamed.

He knew he was asleep, which is why he also realised he was dreaming, yet for all that, the realism of the sensation was uncanny.

He was in a place of wild mist and furze; the faint sound of running water in an indefinable light. _Moorland_? Somewhere north?

He could feel no temperature; neither heat nor cold; there was no wind, or sound, other than the water, or movement; yet he could smell the tang of wet bracken and the rich malt of leaf mould. The ground beneath his feet – he was fully dressed, apparently – was soft and yielding.

Where was this place? Why was he here?

Though there was silence, Mycroft knew someone was approaching – maybe the light was bending differently – he scanned the mist over to his left. Over there; _yes_.

It could only have been her.

Cate walked, more nearly floated, over the rough grassland. She was barefoot, clad in a classical Grecian gown of dark grey smoke which writhed and swirled around her as a living thing. Her hair was longer, he noticed; long enough for her to have it caught up in a heavy _chignon_ at the nape of her neck, dark tendrils carelessly escaping. Her arms were bare, her face was pale, innocent of cosmetics.

"Where are we?" he asked when she was close enough to hear.

"I was born over there," she pointed towards a small, stone-walled town suddenly visible in the valley below them.

"This is Wales?" Mycroft was surprised at his surprise. This was a dream, after all.

Cate smiled. "Of course," as if there were nowhere else it could be.

"Why are we here?"

"I wanted to show you something," she said taking his hand. Her fingers felt cool and insubstantial in his. He held tight.

Walking, or rather, Cate walked, the broken terrain no obstacle to her progress; while he stumbled and caught on every tussock and root. Traversing reeded pools and boggy marsh, they came to a small hill. "We need to climb now," Cate nodded upwards.

They climbed, or rather _he_ climbed while Cate floated upwards and he slaved up the mild incline, each step a massive effort. Eventually, the summit was achieved.

The sight was breath-taking.

Below them lay a plateau of gold and silver and sunlight; of broad blue rivers and the whitest of clouds; of verdant farmland and orchards. In the middle-distance there stood a castle; not a real castle, nor yet something from celluloid, but a white-towered construction of impossible scale and majesty; of soaring architecture and burnished carapace. Elegant colours flew lazily from the parapets in a mood of untroubled permanence. There was even a moat.

" _What is this place_?" Mycroft was trying to take it all in, but the more details he observed, the more detail appeared. It was fractal beauty: impossible to see a point of genesis.

"You don't know where we are?" Cate turned to him, amused.

Shaking his head, Mycroft faced her, staring into her eyes as if to extract the knowledge that way.

"This is my heart, Mycroft," she smiled. "We are in my heart."

"It's beautiful," he managed only a whisper.

"Thank you," Cate smiled self-consciously. "I try."

"Who lives in the castle?" he had to ask.

Lifting her eyebrows, her expression suggesting he was being a bit dim, she shook her head. "And I thought you were the clever one."

"Is it mine?" Mycroft held her arms, her answer suddenly terribly important. "Is that where I live?"

Looking up with a smile of radiance and laughter, Cate nodded. "As if anyone but you could build in here," she grinned. "It's incredibly difficult territory."

Closing his eyes, Mycroft rested his head against hers, his fingers reaching up to the knot of her hair. With a gentle tug, the silky mass came down, flowing over them both. He revelled in the sensation.

"That was silly," her voice sounded faint. "Now you've spoiled it." He looked up, she was walking away. From him. _No_.

" _Cate_ …"

"Goodbye, Mycroft …"

Opening his eyes, he saw that dawn was well-advanced. It was the longest period of continuous sleep he'd had for over a week. Mycroft's first realisation was that, for once, he felt rested.

His second realisation was that he could not happily exist without her now. It was as simple as that.

His next thought gave him pause.

To get her back, he was going to have to play both sides of a complex chess-game, in the open, surrounded by keen observers, without anyone noticing he was breaking every single one of his own rules.

Mycroft stretched under the covers and smiled.

He was going to have to cheat.


	7. Chapter 7

_The Primary Goal – A Girl Called Medina – A Bit of a Limp – The Pinch of the Game – Serious People – A Norling Conference – A Bastard at Oxford – Life Doesn't Behave – A Meeting at The Dorchester – Things Coming Together._

#

#

Malik al Badour checked his messages again. He had been anticipating a further communication for some while, but his secret emissary had remained silent longer than expected: nothing from the informant for over a week. Was something wrong?

The plan had been that the traitor in the Emir Talid dynasty would be exposed, isolated and … dealt with. The primary reason for his accompanying the heir-apparent to Britain was not merely to provide advice and support. _No_ ; this trip had a far greater rationale than stocking up on light-armaments. Malik's was not a role most people would want or even appreciate, but he had had sworn an oath of fealty to his Chief's family. To serve to the death, although specifically _whose_ demise was a matter open to analysis. In this instance, there had already been one mortality; a life unhesitatingly taken in return for the name of he who would be the second to die.

So much was at stake here, not only the future of the family, but maintaining the tribe's pre-eminence among the various branches of the family tree. Any proven absence of loyalty to the Emir or his heir was rewarded in the old way; a very _final_ way.

Malik al Badour tapped the phone thoughtfully against his chin. There was nothing he could do. The identity of the informant remained unknown to him; he knew only that it was someone, probably a man, involved in the British armaments industry; that this man had secured evidence of a traitor in the House of Khalid with designs upon its future leadership. There was to be an accident – or something resembling an accident – and the nominative heir, Hassan bin Khalid, would be removed from the picture. This could not be permitted to happen.

One of the traitor's London-based underlings had already met his grisly, but not undeserved end. Now Malik was waiting for a message giving him the name of the man who wanted to destabilise the Emir Talid and his son. It was the secondary objective of his mission. One he had achieved the lesser goal, he would act on the primary one.

Malik al Badour checked his messages again.

###

Erik Norling shoved his hands deeper into his pockets as he walked swiftly down towards Lowndes Street on the edge of Belgravia. It hadn't been until he'd spent the last week or so scuttling around with Medina and Cate, that he'd realised the sheer numbers of CCTV cameras _everywhere_ in London. You didn't dare blink in case you missed one and it nabbed you. There was a knack, however, to locating them without being located yourself, and he'd quickly worked out how to stay invisible from their sleepless stare. But here … Erik stopped outside his father's mansion, _Jesus_ … there were dozens of the damn things.

Redding, the old man's butler, let him in. In all the years his father had retained this man, Erik had never heard him called by any other name. Was Redding a surname or a first name? Who knew?

Striding into the study, Erik was already shrugging out of his thick coat and hat, his darkened hair a tangled mess.

"Hi, Dad," he said, walking up to his father's desk and snaffling one half of the thick sandwich from the plate holding James Norling's lunch.

Sitting back in his comfortable leather chair, Norling senior looked askance at his only child.

" _What the bloody blue hell do you think you're up to_?" he demanded, folding his arms and looking fairly thunderous, his London accent heading distinctly north in his temper. "One phone call more than a week ago telling me you're off on some foolish sodding jaunt with a girl and some professor, and then _nothing_?" He stood, resting his knuckles on the desktop looking typically angry. " _Well_?"

After the last few days, being chased by the police, almost getting into a fight with one of them; hiding out from the law, skulking around like some criminal, Erik had developed a slightly different perspective on life in general, and on his in particular.

"Dad," he said. " _Relax_." Slumping down in the nearest chair, Norling junior finished the sandwich and assessed his chances of successfully getting away with the other half.

Unused to the fruit of his loins acting as an independent individual rather than a needy child, James Norling found he was, for once, slightly at a loss for words. As a rule, people didn't speak to him like this any more. The idea that anyone might suggest he should back off was a fairly novel one. He found he was disguising a small smile. Might it be that his son was actually achieving some form of adulthood?

"So," he said, straightening up, his voice moderating. "Are you going to let your old man in on the situation?"

Sighing, Erik felt he probably should, despite the fact his father would almost certainly try to step in and _fix_ everything in sight.

"It's a long story," he turned to gauge his father's expression, "but it all started when I met this girl called Medina …" he paused, looking at the remaining sandwich. "Are you going to eat that?"

###

Lestrade had finally managed to get the forensic photography boffins to clarify the CCTV security camera films from inside the British Museum on the day of the – according to the printed press – spectacular 'Mummy Murder'. It had taken this long for the results to come back as the exhibit's light-levels had been maintained at an unusually low intensity in order to protect the fading colours of the paint-skimmed limestone veneers. Perfect luminosity for tomb-art; unbelievably awful for cinematography. It had taken the lab well over a week to come back with anything vaguely recognisable as evidence. Lestrade still wasn't sure it would be sufficient to hold up in court – if it ever got there – but at least there might be enough to provide some sort of lead in the matter. The museum people were crawling all over the walls – his – to have the thing put to rest, as it were, and he really wanted John Watson out of his hair for a space of at least five minutes, this week.

Poor though the image-quality was on the enhanced and digitised video, there were a few points of genuine usefulness; especially the definite figure of a man exiting the tomb-room moments before John entered.

Twisting his head sideways to peer at the poor-quality picture, Sherlock was half upside-down when he paused, locking the resultant image in his memory. He threw himself back upright.

"Ironic," he said, looking meditative.

" _Ironic_? _What_ ironic?" Lestrade wanted anything the younger Holmes could give him. Especially if it might get the British Museum file off his desk.

"Ironic," Sherlock added, "in that the murder in the Egyptian tomb was most likely done by an Egyptian."

"You cannot possibly see that shadow of a figure as an _Egyptian_ , Sherlock," Greg Lestrade scorned. "Not even you have that kind of eyesight."

Lifting his eyebrows, Sherlock looked puzzled. "How can you possibly _not_ see that shadow as an Egyptian male, approximately thirty to forty years old, medium height, wears a gold earring in his right ear and has a slight limp." He turned upside down again. "Left leg."

Folding his arms and shaking his head, the Inspector looked anything but convinced. " _Egyptian_?"

"The earring," Sherlock nodded at the shadowy photograph. "An ankh; the _crux ansata_ of ancient Egypt," he said. "Worn almost exclusively today by teenage girls, hippies and … Egyptians."

"If you're feeding me a line, Sherlock, there will be consequences," Greg Lestrade muttered, lifting his phone and asking for exterior surveillance film of the British Museum on the time and date in question – specifically requesting that the analysts check for any dark-haired males under fifty, possibly wearing an earring and walking …" Lestrade narrowed his eyes, turning to look at Sherlock, " _with a bit of a limp_ ," he said "Left leg."

Settling back in the plastic-covered seat, Sherlock folded his arms and waited. Surely not even Scotland Yard could be so inept as to miss such an obvious piece of information. He sighed, irritated. "And you call yourselves a police-force."

"Don't start," the Inspector shook his head. "The only reason you're here instead of downstairs in a cell after interfering with the course of the law and messing about with my officers, is because you are occasionally useful," he said.

" _Occasionally_?" Sherlock scoffed.

Lestrade's phone rang. Listening, the Londoner's eyes turned to Sherlock as he nodded to whoever was at the other end of the conversation.

"Really?" he said. "With a limp?" He nodded again. "Were we able to track him?" Another small nod. "Right."

Replacing the phone, Lestrade sat in his chair, his fingers pressed together as he sat in thought.

"Seems you might be right," he said. "The museum's internal security recordings show a number of museum visitors who might fit that general description, but," he added, eyebrows rising in acknowledgement, "only one with a limp."

" _And_ ...?" Sherlock looked moderately interested.

"The man was seen hailing a cab which headed west." Lestrade sat back in his chair, a pen playing between his fingers.

"Did the camera pick up the cab's number?"

"Indeed it did." The silver-haired policeman grinned suddenly. "Both cab and driver are being tracked as we speak."

###

Once the decision had been made, Mycroft found himself at his calmest since Cate had left. It was simply a question now of following two simultaneous, yet diametrically opposed, sequences of activity: one in a continuance of the goal to have al Badour removed permanently from the country; the other to enable his wife to cease protesting her student's inequitable treatment at his hands. While the two objectives seemed, at first light, inimicable, Mycroft was reasonably confident of eventual success. Playing both ends off against the middle might seem an act of madness when the stakes were so high, but Mycroft specialised at handling the pinch of the game.

First things first: to take steps to have al Badour declared officially _non-grata_ , and thus add another string to the bow of deportation. This required several items of variously-signed documentation, all of which were currently in train. The second task would be to have the girl Medina follow her father off-shore without it appearing as if she was being forced to leave. The latter was slightly more problematic in that he now needed to locate a rationale that would have her desire to quit Britain voluntarily.

Smiling imperceptibly, Mycroft looked at the antique brass calendar on his desk. Today was Tuesday. He had no desire to continue this solitary existence for longer than was avoidable, and therefore would do whatever was needed – _whatever was needed_ – to achieve his objective.

He would have Cate back by the weekend.

###

Charles Shelsher had met the Queen. Several times, actually. He knew Prince Phillip well enough to say 'hello'; Charles, Anne, her brothers and some of the younger ones too. He was no stranger to the highest circles of society, nor did he concern himself about the consequences of mixing in any _stratum_ that might require his presence. Shelsher was also skilled in the high arts of political machination; where the right word whispered in the most appropriate ear at a propitious moment often yielded far greater dividends than that achieved by a show of main force. He almost never worried about what to say because – and he admitted this quite openly – he was conceited enough not to worry about making a gaffe. Naturally, since appearing _gauche_ was the last thing on his mind, it was the last thing he appeared. Regardless of where he was, or with whom he conversed, the intricacies of genteel social intercourse had not stumped him yet. Until now.

Right now, he was sitting behind his desk looking into the face of a man who radiated sincerity. This was not as difficult a trick as it sounded; Shelsher often radiated any number of disparate emotions when it suited, but _this_ man … this man put steel in it.

Malik al Badour had asked for a meeting to discuss the situation surrounding his eldest daughter, the same one that Mycroft Holmes had demanded he exclude and the exact same one that Cate _Adin_ -Holmes had gone off with in a mad fuss.

The man had come in with what was clearly an armed and rather unpleasant-looking bodyguard whom he designated his _associate_ ; had sat down and simply _looked_ at the Vice-Chancellor, his gaze as discomforting as the shaken head and expensive inward whistle of the mechanic examining the engine of your Rolls.

"But why did your university decide my daughter could no longer study here?" al Badour returned to his original question.

Charles realised that, sooner or later, the man would unearth the truth. It may as well come from him as anyone else.

"The British Government does not want you here, Mr al Badour," he said. "The general thinking is that if you have no family in this country, you will be less likely to return."

Surprisingly, he had laughed at this.

"You tell me nothing unexpected," he said, shaking his head and smiling. "But," he added, the smile slipping from his face. "Where is my daughter now?"

Hesitating, Shelsher sighed. "She is staying with one of her professors who is trying to have your daughter reinstated," he said. "Although I'm not sure where that is, exactly," he added. "Somewhere in London."

"My daughter has disappeared with one of your staff and you don't know where that _is_?" Malik was starting to feel angry.

"Mr al Badour," the VC attempted diplomacy. "In Britain, universities do not assume parental supervision over tertiary students – they are all over eighteen and therefore of an age to be accountable for their own actions."

"A complicated way of saying you don't care about my daughter?"

Shelsher looked down. "On the contrary," he said, quietly. "The professor who has taken your daughter under her wing has risked not only her academic career, but also her personal relationships for your child," he said. "If anything, my staff care too much about their students, not the opposite."

Barely mollified, al Badour sat back, folding his arms. He would not leave this city without first finding Medina and persuading her to accompany him home. He needed to speak with this professor who cared too much.

"Where are they?" he asked. "I want to speak with them."

" _Unfortunately_ ," Shelsher looked fractionally uncomfortable. "They have decided to … stay out of sight," he said. "The police are seeking your daughter as her student visa has been rescinded."

Standing, al Badour looked down with more than a hint of savagery in his eyes. "This is how you treat an innocent girl who comes to your country to study?" he demanded. "I want to meet this professor and speak to my daughter and see what needs to be done."

"That course of action may not be in your daughter's best interests," he said. "People are looking for her," he added. "Serious people."

" _I_ am serious people," Malik growled, striding out of the room. Without a word, his _associate_ followed close behind.

###

"And her father is, who?" James Norling watched his son plough through yet another plate of food.

"Dunno," Erik put the plate down and sat back, finally replete. "Some bloke called _Badour_ ," he said, loosening his belt a notch. That was the most he'd eaten in over a week; not that Cate had him on starvation rations, but it was difficult for anyone to leave the flat to get food during the day now.

James Norling heard the name 'Badour' and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. _Coincidence_? "Have you met him?" he asked, off-handedly.

"Yeah," Erik looked at his father with a suspicious eye. He only used that tone in his voice when there was something about to fall from on high. "Why?"

"You've met Malik al Badour?" Norling senior narrowed his eyes. This was not something even remotely anticipated.

Now Erik knew something was up. Either his father was angry, and he didn't look angry, or he was worried. And there was another thing.

"How do you know Medina's dad's full name?" he asked, carefully. "I only said 'Badour'."

Walking to stare out of the curtained window, Erik's father folded his arms in thought. The boy was of an age when he might reasonably be expected to start taking an interest in the business, he mused. It might be wise to let him into this part, at least … making a decision, James Norling turned sharply, assessing the now-wary expression of his son.

"There are things you need to know about what I do," he said, walking towards the sofa. "Because some of it involves your girlfriend's father."

###

"Yes, Sir," Mycroft's admin confirmed it. "Malik al Badour and bodyguard seen entering the Vice-Chancellor's office in Gower Street campus at 10.30 this morning," the woman paused, checking. "Left approximately eleven minutes later, entered black Daimler, headed off in a westerly direction. We're checking the plates now, Sir," she added.

So: al Badour had finally gone to see the VC. This meant that …

"I'll take Shelsher's call in my office," he said, walking towards his door. His phone rang mere seconds later.

"Mycroft, the girl's father was here," Charles Shelsher's rich tones filled the office. "He demanded to know where she was now … I had little choice but to tell him what is already common-knowledge."

"He knows my wife is with his daughter?" Unease pricked Mycroft's pulse. If al Badour was getting too close, he'd send the police to the Islington flat and damn the consequences. The idea of that man anywhere near Cate gave him the worst kind of feeling.

"Not specifically your wife," Shelsher added quickly. "Cate's name has not yet been linked to this situation," he said. "He only knows that it's one of my female professorial staff."

Then there was still time. If it was in any way possible, Mycroft wanted this thing to play out according to _his_ schedule, thus achieving a neat dovetailing of objectives, however, if anyone's safety was in the wind … he'd not hesitate.

"Did he indicate any knowledge of their whereabouts?" he asked.

"None at all, and I couldn't help him there either since I am completely in the dark," Charles sounded a little put-out. "Are they still in London?"

"Probably best you not know, old chap," Mycroft said softly. "Just in case."

After the call ended, Shelsher paused, thinking. Just in case? _Just in case_ … _what_? Setting his jaw, he recalled that Mycroft Holmes had been something of a bastard at Oxford too.

###

Cate sat on the sofa beside Medina; some old pirate film on the TV. They knew Erik had gone to see his father, and Cate suspected Medina wanted to go and see hers. It was plain the girl idolised him, and, cultural aspects aside, he sounded a fairly enlightened man considering the weight of social pressure that might be against him at home. Regardless of what kind of person he was, Cate thought that Medina's father – and her mother – sounded intriguing.

"If you want to go and see your father, we can arrange it, you know," she said quietly to the girl. "And remember," she added. "You're only here because you decided you wanted to be."

"Why is life so horribly complicated?" Medina stared at the grey faces of the actors on the screen. "All I wanted to do was to come here and be a good student."

Cate's heart went out to the young woman. She knew exactly the feeling. She sighed.

"Life doesn't always behave the way we want it or expect it to," she said. "I know mine isn't doing what I want it to right now."

Turning to look at Cate's expression, "I never asked you what you had given up to be here with us," she said. "It is very difficult for you?"

"My husband isn't terribly happy about it," Cate smiled ruefully. "He wants me to be sensible and stop doing things he considers dangerous."

"Is this dangerous?" Medina's was suddenly tense.

"Sweetheart," Cate said soothingly. "If I thought any of us were in real danger, we'd be at my husband's office in a taxi inside fifteen minutes."

"What does he do, your husband?"

Cate smiled. How to describe Mycroft's job …

"He works for the government," she said. "He solves problems for them."

"Am I a problem he is solving?" Medina was listless.

"I think perhaps your father might be a problem for him," Cate said softly. "I know my husband is concerned about people who are connected to violence."

"My father isn't _violent_ ," Medina sat up suddenly, her voice on the edge of anger. Cate said nothing; she simply looked at the girl.

"Oh, I'm _sorry_ ," Medina seemed to collapse in on herself, her words breaking down into a sob. Pressing her hands against her face, she sagged forward, distraught.

Drawing the younger woman against her shoulder, Cate wrapped her arms around the upset girl and held on while the tears flowed. Sometimes it was good to have a bit of a weep.

"This is all going to work out well in the end," Cate murmured, stroking Medina's hair. "Just wait," she added. "One day we'll look at this experience and wonder what all the fuss was about."

"But everything's gone so wrong …" Medina wailed, her hands clinging to Cate. "And everything was going so well before … and Erik liked me … and I liked him, and you were my teacher … and now it's all gone wrong."

Remembering how black and white everything was at Medina's age, Cate couldn't help but smile a little.

"It's alright, darling," she said, hugging the girl tight. "Have a good cry and then you'll feel better about things, you'll see."

Her tears running dry, the younger woman sat up, mopping her eyes with her sleeve. "How come you know all this stuff?" she said.

Cate smiled again. "Because I've been through all sorts of upsets in my life and they inevitably work out, usually for the better," she said. "The thing is not to give up trying."

"Haven't you ever just had enough and wanted to run away?"

Laughing, Cate put her arm around the girl's shoulders. "Dozens of times," she grinned. "But then I realised that if I wasn't prepared to try and fix a problem, I really couldn't expect anyone else to fix it for me."

"Do you have children?"

The question came out of the blue leaving Cate bewildered. She blinked.

"No," her expression when she looked at Medina was curious. "I don't have children, why do you ask?"

"I think you'd be a wonderful mother … you always know the right things to say. Don't you want any?"

Now totally at sea, Cate floundered, thoughts flashing through her brain at a million a second: a child of her own; _children_ ; Mycroft's child; Mycroft as a father; the expression on his face if she told him she was pregnant … the very idea was too overwhelming to contemplate.

"I am married to my work," she said, smiling. An easy enough illusion. "No time for children."

Digesting this, Medina was silent for a while, then shrugged. "So what do you think I should do?" she asked.

"I think you need to speak to your father first of all," she said. "I think you'd feel a great deal better once you'd cleared the air between you." Cate paused. "And then," she added, slowly. "You need to discuss with him what you plan to do with your future – what is it you want to do now?"

"What do you mean, what _I_ want to do?"

"Well, your father enrolled you into a good British university, so he must care quite a lot about what you want, therefore it makes sense to discuss the next step with him too."  
"But I don't know what the next step is …"

"What is it you'd really like to happen?" Cate asked herself the same question. Just what was it _she_ wanted?

"I'd like to go back to college and study .. and be happy with …" the words slowed as Medina looked uncertainly at Cate.

"With Erik?"

The girl nodded briefly.

"He is rather cute, isn't he?" Cate grinned at Medina's suddenly shy look.

"I'm afraid my father won't accept him."

Nodding, Cate realised it might be a problem. In Medina's culture, it was usually the job of the parents to secure a husband for their daughters. The notion of a love-match was extremely forward. The idea of a relationship between two young people of entirely different cultures and religions … Ah well. One step at a time.

"I still think you should speak to your father and see what he has to say," Cate said, thoughtfully. "Once you know how he feels about things, then you can decide for yourself what you want to do about your future."

"Will you come with me to speak to him … _please_?" Medina's dark eyes were huge with hope.

"I can't act as advocate for you, you know this," Cate wanted to be sure the girl understood. "I have absolutely no authority to speak on your behalf in any way other than as an older friend."

"That will be enough," Medina smiled. "I just need some moral support."

_Deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole._

Nodding, Cate agreed to the girl's request. She would go and speak with Malik al Badour.

###

"Sir?" The Admin turned to face him. "Looks like targets One and Two are on the move."

Lifting his eyes to the assemblage of large plasma screens along one wall of the Ops room, Mycroft felt a hint of concern. This was not usually the time of day anyone left the Islington flat, although target Three, Erik, had been observed leaving very early that morning and tracked to his parent's house in Lowndes Street. But where were Cate and the girl going in the middle of the day? He didn't like the sudden break in routine; it meant something unexpected was happening.

"In which direction are they heading?" Perhaps their goal might be inferred.

"Both targets heading for the Angel Islington tube station, Sir," the woman had her eyes glued to the CCTV camera screens.

"Do not lose them," though Mycroft's voice was quiet, the imperative echoed.

"Sir," the Admin took a breath and poised her fingers over the internal security camera controls. The second the two women entered the Tube building, she would be all over them with cameras. Waiting until they had swiped their oyster cards …

"Looks like they're heading for the Northern Line platform heading south west towards King's Cross, Sir," she said, watching Cate and Medina like a hawk.

Mycroft didn't like this. Such activity in this direction was unwarranted and deeply concerning. Why the movement? Why today? Was it connected to the boy's visit with his parents? He didn't like this at all.

"Continue observation," he kept his tone cool and impassive.

"Targets now taking the H&C Line towards Edgeware Road." The Admin rubbed her eyes: it was not easy to keep track of individual targets in the crush of the London Underground. She would pay for this with a headache, later.

"Now transferring to the Circle Line, Sir," she said, watching. "Looks like they're heading towards Marble Arch."

 _Marble Arch_? What was at Marble Arch? "Keep your eyes on them," he instructed. "I must know their final destination."

Their progress tracked by in excess of fifteen internal CCTV cameras, Cate and Medina eventually emerged at the Marble Arch station. Mycroft watched as his Admin deftly switched cameras back to street-level. Cate's face was calm. The girl Medina had her arm linked through his wife's; they seemed like two sisters out on a trip. He watched Cate step out to the edge of the kerb, her hand lifted as she hailed a cab. The ubiquitous black London taxi rolled to a halt within a few seconds; they got in.

"Track that cab!" Mycroft had a sinking feeling he already knew where they were headed: Erik had gone to see his parents; now it was the girl's turn. Cate was taking her to see her father, Malik al Badour. Absolutely the _last_ place he wanted Cate to be, and it looked as if she were planning on walking right into the man's grasp.

Extracting his Blackberry, Mycroft pressed the single key that connected him directly to Lestrade at Scotland Yard.

" _Yes_?"

"Are you any further forward on Medina al Badour?" he asked. "I may be able to assist your people in locating her at this very moment."

"We've just had reports in that someone closely resembling the girl got into a black cab at Marble Arch tube and is reported heading south down Park Lane."

"The child's father is staying at the Dorchester," Mycroft advised.

"Mycroft," Lestrade hesitated. "The reports also say that the girl Medina is accompanied by a slightly older woman … dark hair, fair complexion, athletic build …" the policeman paused, seeking the right words. "Is it Cate?"

"Yes." Mycroft's throat was dry. "How soon could you have a response team at the Dorchester?"

" _Christ_ … it's that bad?" Lestrade was unsettled.

"It could be," Mycroft took a breath. "It seems my wife is intent on going to meet one of the most lethal men in London."

"And why would he be dangerous to her?"

The question was inevitable. Mycroft narrowed his eyes as the past returned.

"There is history between al Badour and I," he said. "A not entirely pleasant history."

There was a significant pause as the policeman absorbed this piece of information.

"… Seven minutes, maybe six if I shouted at them," Lestrade offered.

That would be too late. He needed someone is the hotel already … someone who could act without restraint …

"I'll get back to you, Inspector," he said, ending the call abruptly. Pressing another single key, Mycroft waited … waited … _for God's sake_ …

" _Mycroft_ ," the dulcet baritone of his younger brother greeted him.

"How close are you to the Dorchester?"

"… Assuming cab availability, John and I can be there in less than five minutes," Sherlock said, realising immediately that this had to be something connected to Cate. Almost nothing else would have his elder sibling so uncivil. Mycroft was worried.

"Go there now, please," Mycroft said. "Cate may need help. She may be going to meeting a guest at the hotel by the name of Malik al Badour; he's in one of the roof suites. I've spoken with the police, but Lestrade's people would be too slow."

"Leaving now, Mycroft," Sherlock was already half-way down the stairs, John scrambling behind him. "Don't worry," the younger Holmes added. "For a normal person, your wife is extremely self-sufficient."

"You suggest Cate is normal?" The faint smile was impossible to curb.

"Comparatively," Sherlock responded. "I'll call you from the Dorchester," he said, ending the call.

###

"Then what should I do?" Erik sat in front of his father. "I genuinely like Medina and I don't want her to be sent home," he paused. "I really like her, Dad."

"Does she know this?" the elder Norling knew only too well of the problems inherent in relationships that crossed cultures. His wife still hadn't forgiven him for the way he spoke to her mother … and that had been more than twenty years ago.

"I've not really had an opportunity to tell her in so many words," Erik made a face. "But I'm pretty sure she knows how I feel about her … I think maybe I should speak to her father."

Norling was slightly impressed. Perhaps the boy was growing up after all.

"You've already met him once, and now you want to talk to him again, about his daughter?"

Erik shrugged and nodded. "It seems the right thing to do."

Keeping his face straight was not as easy as it sounded, but James Norling managed. It looked very much as if his son was stepping into man-sized shoes at last. A vague sense of triumph made his chest swell. This girl must be quite something if he was willing to risk al Badour's temper over her.

"Then why don't we do that?" he said, standing, reaching for his jacket. "The Dorchester, you said?" Norling pressed a discreet button on his desk.

Nodding, Erik also stood. His two bodyguards entered, their faces an inquiry.

"The Dorchester Hotel," Norling said, already walking towards the door.

One of the men pulled out his phone to organise the car, the second opened the door for father and son to exit.

Assuming normal traffic, they would be there in five minutes.

###

The report on the cab came in within seconds of Mycroft's call. Lestrade scanned swiftly through the pertinent details.

Picked up a fare outside the British Museum, middle-eastern man; dark-haired, mid-thirties, walked with a slight limp.

Dropped fare off … 9 Tilney Street. The Dorchester Hotel.

Lestrade sat back in his chair, a smile of satisfaction crossing his face. It looked as if things were finally coming together. Time, then, to get cracking with some results. He lifted his desk-phone.

"I need two cars at the Dorchester in the next ten minutes," he said. "Pick me up at the main doors."

Next, he lifted his personal mobile and called Sherlock.

"The man who might be the murderer from the British Museum was dropped off at the Dorchester hotel," he said. "Thought you might like to know."

"Thank you, Inspector," Sherlock's voice sounded faintly amused. "As it happens, John and I are _enroute_ to that precise location as we speak."

Greg Lestrade grinned as he strode out of his office and towards the lifts. There was no way he planned on missing _this_ little event.


	8. Chapter 8

_Upsetting Men – Actions and Consequences – Surely Destiny? – What of the Future? – Let This Be Over – A Matter of Urgency – Collusion – The Informant – The Sacrifice._

#

#

The liveried Doorman in his distinctive top hat, opened the cab door and, despite their less-than-sumptuous attire, welcomed Cate and Medina to The Dorchester with old-age courtesy. Heading immediately towards the bank of lifts immediately to the left of the main desk, Medina hit the 'Up' button and waited. She was clearly nervous.

"He's not going to eat you alive," Cate smiled. "Is he?"

"No, I don't expect so," the girl made an anxious face. "I just don't like him being upset with me."

"Sometimes men need to be upset about things," Cate reflected. "Sometimes it's the only way they can see how their actions are affecting others."

"Do you upset your husband?"

Cate laughed aloud. "Oh, God, _yes_ ," she grinned. "Mycroft is often far too detached and controlled for his own good. I'm sure I drive him utterly mad with my unplanned decisions and illogical behaviour." Cate shook her head, still smiling. "I don't do it to upset him on purpose," she added. "But it's good for him to know that there are other ways, apart from his way, of doing things." The lift arrived.

"And does he upset you sometimes?" Medina asked, selecting the Penthouse Level.

Her smile fading slightly, Cate nodded. "Not terribly often, but yes, he does, sometimes," she said, quietly. "He can be so very intense about things … he doesn't realise that such focus can be … _difficult_ to handle."

"But you love him?" Medina looked closely at the Professor. This was a side of her teacher she'd never seen before. That someone so educated and clever and worldly could also be normal and vulnerable.

Turning to smile at the younger woman, Cate paused. Trying to produce the right words, she found her smile turning into a sincere grin; an uncontainable grin. "More than I know how to describe," she said. "And for an English teacher," she laughed again, "that's quite something."

Nodding her understanding, the young woman took a deeper breath as the lift slowed at the highest point of its journey. They were here.

"Come on then," Cate grabbed her hand and stepped into the – frankly opulent – hallway. "Which way?"

"Down here," Medina took another deep breath and walked around a corner. There was a large, formidable wooden door. In front of the door stood a large, formidable guard. Cate realised immediately that he was a guard: she'd seen men with Mycroft who looked like this.

"Hello, Rashidi," Medina stopped in front of the man. "Is my father inside?"

Staring at Cate, the guard nodded slowly, opening the door for the two women, watching them as they walked through, following not-too-far behind.

Looking up from his laptop, Malik al Badour realised the object of his increasingly widening search had just walked in to see him … and brought a guest. Standing swiftly, he strode over to the younger woman and held her shoulders, looking down into her anxious eyes. His face showed more relief than upset.

"Where have you been?" he demanded. "Rashidi and I have been all over this city looking for you. I even went to speak with the Vice-Chancellor of your university." He drew her into a close hug. "Are you alright? Is anything wrong with you? Are you well?"

Relaxing a little under the obvious warmth of his regard, Medina was able to smile, although she feared this calm might not last.

"Pappa, I am perfectly fine," she said, looking up into his dark eyes. "Professor Cate has been like a second mother to me," she added, turning. "Or perhaps an aunty."

Still with an arm around his daughter, al Badour also turned, fixing Cate with a thoughtful stare.

"You are the Professor who has been looking after my Medina since the university revoked her enrolment?"

Nodding, Cate looked carefully at the man her student had been so nervous at upsetting. Tall, dark, with an immaculate and closely trimmed beard along the line of his jaw, he dressed like a diplomat and stood like a soldier. Granted, he didn't look particularly overjoyed at the moment, but that was hardly surprising. He didn't seem all that alarming: she had seen Mycroft looking far stormier. She offered a polite smile.

Malik observed the woman assessing him, systematically, and without fear or embarrassment. Despite her mundane clothing, she seemed polished and attractive in the western style where the women were as independent as the men. Her face was open and her eyes clear of duplicity. That she might have risked her own career for the sake of his daughter suggested she also had a strong sense of morality and fairness. He nodded back.

"I am forgetting my manners," he said, indicating a chair for Cate. "Please sit and I will have some refreshments brought. What may I offer you?"

"Mint tea for me please Pappa," Medina threw herself into a plush-looking armchair.

"I'd appreciate a coffee," Cate smiled, taking the seat. "Thank you."

He nodded at the guard who immediately muttered on the phone.

"So," al Badour paused, sitting opposite Cate. "My name is Malik al Badour; Medina is my eldest child, _who_ ," he paused again, looking reprovingly at said eldest child, "despite her unusual behaviour, is the flower of my heart." Cate noticed that Malik linked his fingers in exactly the same way that Mycroft did. "Please tell me what you have been doing to help my daughter," he said, smiling cordially. "And then tell me why."

Despite the fact that the man's English was exquisite, Cate heard the melodic undertones of desert poetry. From her experience with both colleagues and students of the various Arab nations, she knew he would listen not only to the words that were spoken but also to the meanings beneath them. Very well then.

"I am Catherine Adin-Holmes, Mr al Badour, a Professor at the University College of London. Your daughter is one of my research students." Cate paused, gathering her thoughts.

"It seems I have managed to do very little for Medina so far, except to keep her from the police detention centre and away from MI5 who," Cate lifted her brows with an innocuous yet curious smile, "seem _extraordinarily_ interested in a young master's candidate."

Assuming a candid expression, Cate smiled again as she accepted her coffee. Adding a single sugar to the aromatic blackness, she sighed in pleasure at the first sip. "And as to the why," Cate looked down at the delicate porcelain in her hand before lifting her eyes and meeting al Badour's dark gaze. "I am a great supporter of free will," she smiled. "Every action has a consequence," she added. "I believe it important for individuals to choose their own consequences."

Medina's father tasted his own coffee just as he tasted the Professor's words. He was intrigued at hearing the woman speak of actions and consequences; of the place of the individual. Clearly she was probing his own belief-system. He smiled.

"You should meet my wife," he said. "Escalla has very similar opinions about individualism and the right to choose one's destiny."

"Is destiny written for us or do we write our own as we live it?" Cate stirred her coffee.

" _Allah kereem_ ," Malik smiled again. "Who may say what each man's fate might be; it is not for us to decide."

"And yet we do decide for others, Mr al Badour," Cate met his eyes directly. "Our own actions affect the choices of others, either directing them, hindering them or helping them, wouldn't you agree?"

Sipping her tea, Medina heard everything her father and the Professor said to each other, yet she had a feeling that while she understood the words, she was missing something important. She looked from one face to the other. Both were calm and relaxed. Both were communicating on some unspoken level. Medina sighed inwardly; it must be an old-person thing.

Sitting forward, al Badour finally grasped what the Professor was saying. He was being told off. Lifting his eyebrows in amused surprise, he rested his chin against the fingers of his right hand.

"For a guest, you walk perilously close to discourtesy," he observed, still smiling.

Putting her cup down, Cate looked philosophical. "My husband would probably agree with you," she said, shrugging, a small grin crossing her face. "I am not noted for my diplomacy," she added. "Only my honesty."

"And you honestly believe that my actions have caused Medina this trouble?"

"As you said yourself, Mr al Badour," Cate was reason incarnate. "Your daughter is an innocent child, so it is unlikely to be something of her doing."

"Your husband is a very brave man, Professor," Malik sat back into his chair, once again resting his head on his fingers, his lips moving into a definite smile. "I would like to play chess with him and discuss the problem of women."

"You plan on staying in London that long?"

Malik laughed, genuinely amused. "What does he do, this man of yours? Adin-Holmes is not a name I know."

"My husband's name is Holmes, mine is Adin, I combined them when we …" Cate stopped at the strange expression on al Badour's face. He had frozen.

"What is your husband's _first_ name?" he leaned forward and spoke softly.

Cate was momentarily adrift; the entire tone of the conversation had changed in a blink. As soon as she had mentioned the name Holmes … _ah_. Perhaps this was one of the things Mycroft wasn't willing to tell her. Caution was called for.

"My husband is Mycroft Holmes."

Settling back into his armchair, Malik al Badour frowned. "Medina," he said. "Please go into the other room. I will speak privately with your Professor."

Equally alarmed by the unexpected chilliness in her father's voice, Medina looked anxiously at Cate, who smiled and nodded. The young woman left looking backwards over her shoulder.

Linking his fingers, al Badour rested them against his chin. He smiled, but it was a dark, unhappy expression.

" _So_ ," he said. "After all these years, I have my old enemy's woman under my roof," he made a sound that might have been a laugh. "How the wheel turns."

"You realise, of course," Cate sat relaxed and apparently unconcerned by the unexpected alteration in their conversation. "That I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about."

"Of course you don't," Malik's smile flattened. "It was years ago and a great distance from this place. So," he mused. "Mycroft Holmes wants me gone and is using my daughter as leverage? How like him. And how ironic."

"Would you rather discuss my husband," Cate asked, in all seriousness, "or your daughter? Really, we are not the important ones here," she paused. "Medina is." Lifting her cup. "Any chance of another coffee?"

"You are in a sound-proofed and remote hotel room with an acknowledged enemy of your husband, and you sit there, calmly asking for more coffee?" al Badour was bemused.

"What would you rather I do?" Cate lifted her eyebrows. "Scream? Demand to be allowed to leave?" she settled more comfortably in her chair. "That is so tediously predictable."

And now al Badour really did laugh; the look of entertainment on his face was quite genuine and without reservation.

"I almost pity the man," he said, his hand flat against his chest. "You must fight like cat and dog every night."

Now it was Cate's turn to be amused. "Not _every_ night," she said quietly, her lips curling into an irrepressible private smile.

"You really should meet my wife," al Badour said, shaking his head, grinning. "The two of you would constitute a national hazard."

"Before we speak of your wife, we need to speak of your daughter," Cate resumed the previous conversation. "And I really would like some more coffee if possible."

Waving at his guard for the coffee, al Badour composed himself to listen.

"Very well, _Professor_ ," he said. "What should we do about my daughter's situation?"

"She is a very clever, decent young woman who should be given every opportunity to use the intelligence she inherited from her parents," she said. "Anything less would make mockery of claims to civilised behaviour by any of us."

"So what do we do?"

"There is another complication." Cate was hesitant about raising the issue … it really wasn't her place to tread in this area … but perhaps she could prepare the ground just a little …

"There is a young man."

Malik al Badour froze. His Medina and a _man_..?

"Your daughter is an innocent," Cate stated, quickly. "An _innocent_. You have my word on this."

Calming himself, al Badour took a breath. Despite all logic telling him not to listen to this woman, not to trust her, he did. Maybe it was the teacher in her. She _oozed_ integrity.

"Tell me of this man," he demanded.

"I think you've already met him," Cate smiled. "His name is Erik."

Thinking back to a breakfast several mornings ago, al Badour nodded.

"Very young, tall, thin, blonde?"

"Erik Norling, son of a wealthy British businessman," Cate nodded. "He has risked his own security by insisting on protecting your daughter regardless of her situation," she added. "Whatever else you may think of him, you must be aware that he may already have sacrificed his academic future for her."

"And Medina?" he asked. "What does she want?"

Cate shook her head. This was not her call. "Everyone should choose their own consequences," she said softly. "You must ask your daughter this question." This was as far as Cate could go; she had opened the door. If Medina wanted to walk through it, she would have to say so in her own words.

Malik sat back, watching as Cate sipped her second coffee with every evidence of enjoyment. This had been a strange encounter. The wife of an old and terrible enemy; the Professor who protected her student at the risk of her own professional career; the woman who cared enough for a stranger's daughter to take her in and protect her? Malik was at a loss. He wished Escalla were here: she would know what to do. But wait … that name … _Norling_ …

"What does the boy's father do?" he asked.

"No idea," Cate said. "I only know he's a very successful London businessman with a beautiful wife." I've only met him once."

"What does he look like?" al Badour was sure he knew the name.

"Slightly taller than usual, balding, blue eyes, London accent," that's about all I can remember, Cate racked her memory for more, but that was it.

The name and the face slotted together. Malik al Badour realised he already knew the boy's father; that the man was in the same business as he; that they had spoken only days before. This was beyond accident or coincidence. _This was surely destiny_.

There was the sound of a doorbell; the guard immediately went to look. There were two men; one older, dressed impeccably in an expensive business-suite, the other younger. Opening the door, Rashidi asked who they were.

"I'm James Norling and this is my son," he said. "We've come to speak with Malik al Badour on a matter of business."

Recognising the voice as well as the name, Cate shot a look at al Badour. "The young man, Erik," she said. "What a coincidence."

"I do not believe in coincidences," Malik stood, buttoning his jacket. "Ask them in."

As the two newcomers entered, Cate continued sipping her coffee. There wasn't much else she could do now except stay out of the way as the situation unfolded.

Norling and al Badour met each other's eyes; James offered his hand. "I did not expect us to meet again this soon," he said.

Shaking hands, Malik nodded, a half-smile on his face. "This is an afternoon for unexpected visitors."

"This is my son, Erik," Norling continued, "but I believe you may have already met?"

Shaking the boy's hand as well, al Badour appraised him less as a student this time, and more as a man. "Ah yes," Malik looked moderately critical. "The young Angel."

"Mr al Badour," Erik met the older man's steady gaze and nodded. He wondered if Medina's father could tell how incredibly nervous he was.

"And I think you both know the Professor here," Malik waved towards Cate.

" _Professor_ ," Erik saw her sitting, and he smiled, relieved at having a friend so close. "Is Medina here too?"

"Medina is in the other room," Cate said. "But I think you should sit down and be quiet for a while."

Looking at her face, Erik realised Cate was being perfectly serious. After the information his father had shared with him earlier, Erik thought perhaps she was right. He chose a chair to her left and folded his long length as he sat.

"You are the one responsible for my boy leaving the university and running off into hiding?' James Norling sounded more than a little antagonistic.

Cate smiled, putting her cup down. "I think you need to ask Erik that question," she said, calmly.

Turning to stare at his son, James Norling was clearly waiting for an answer. "Well?" he demanded.

"This had almost nothing to do with Professor Cate, Dad," Erik said, looking up at his father's angry face. "In fact, she was the one who tried to talk Medina and I out of this all the time; she kept saying that we could end it any time we wanted," he sighed. "The Professor was also the one who made us phone you that first day; neither of us wanted to: we were too nervous, but she insisted that we act like adults. So, _no_ , Dad," Erik looked fatalistic. "The Professor is not in the least responsible for me chucking my studies. That was my decision and I will accept the consequences of it."

Suddenly busy with her coffee-cup, Cate felt a hot surge of pride: he actually had listened. He had become an adult right in front of her.

Erik turned to her suddenly. "What happened that day when those two men came to get us and you told us to run away?" he asked. "You never did say what happened. Who were they?"

Cate cleared her throat, slightly discomforted that the conversation had turned to her.

"They were MI5," she said. "Nothing much happened. They arrested me and took me for questioning, but as I am a simple teacher, they eventually let me go." Cate smiled and looked harmless.

"MI5 arrested you?" James Norling was shocked.

Cate smiled again. "I do seem to get into all sorts of trouble, don't I?" she said happily.

"So, and let me get this straight," Norling said. "While you were keeping your eye on my pain-in-the-arse son, MI5 nabbed you and had you for questioning? What does the University think of that?"

"I assume the University and I will part ways in the near-future," Cate looked a little sad. "But I understood the consequences of my actions when I took them, so I can do no less than your son, now can I?"

The tall Arab was also curious. "While you were caring for my Medina, you were in trouble with British security services? What did my old enemy have to say about that? It must have caused something of a problem for him? And for you, also?" Cate thought Medina's father looked censorious, almost as if he was sympathising with Mycroft. She just couldn't win.

"Gentlemen," Cate linked her fingers and relaxed into her chair. "That was in the past. The question now, is what of the future for your children?"

Returning to his previous seat, al Badour looked thoughtful. "We must discuss this," he said. "As men."

Giving a slight cough, Cate looked ingenuous. " _Only_ as men?"

Malik had the grace to smile. "Your son protected my daughter," he spoke to the elder Norling while nodding towards Erik. "Thus, despite the fact I am not entirely happy at Medina's behaviour, I am content to acknowledge your son's involvement in her safety and wellbeing. I thank you for this," he said, speaking directly to the boy.

"You daughter has turned my son from a schoolboy into a young man," Norling senior also nodded. "I believe I owe her my gratitude for that. Is she here?"

"In the other room. Perhaps she should join us now," Malik nodded at his guard who tapped on the connecting door. Medina rushed back into the room, taking in everything at a glance. Her eyes lighted on Erik and she smiled. Then she saw a man who had to be Erik's father and she suddenly felt very shy.

"Miss al Badour," James Norling offered his hand, then hesitated, looking at her father with a raised eyebrow. Malik nodded briefly. "I am Erik's father and I'd like to express my appreciation for whatever it was you did to make him grow up." He shook the young woman's hand gently. "Thank you."

Erik covered his face in embarrassment.

Cate was privately delighted. This was going better than she'd dared to hope. Not only were Medina and Erik talking to their fathers, but they were all talking to each other, in the same room, in an atmosphere of, if not quite open harmony, then at least in an absence of acrimony. She realised she was almost holding her breath … if the next immediate steps could be resolved here and now, then the worst of it might be over and she could go home … her heart skipped faster at the idea.

 _Oh, please. Let this be over_.

There was a knock at the door. " _Room service_."

Malik frowned slightly. Room service? Nothing more had been requested of them. Before he was able to voice his thought, Rashidi had opened the door only to have it suddenly thrust against him, pushing him awkwardly back into the main hallway of the suite where he found himself pressed quite firmly into the wall.

Both al Badour and James Norling rose, looks of uncertainty on their faces. Erik also stood, looking swiftly down at the still-seated Cate, who shrugged, as surprised as he. He beckoned Medina to come and stand beside him. She was confused. This was the tall man who had helped them at the tube station by distracting the police. And the blonde man with him fought with the police at the Asian man's training place. So what were they doing here and why did the atmosphere suddenly feel so scary?

"What is happening here?" al Badour demanded, a scowl growing on his face.

"Good afternoon, Mr al Badour," a confident baritone voice offered polite greetings. "My apologies for barging in so rudely, but I assure you, this is a matter of utmost urgency."

Cate closed her eyes. Of all the times for Sherlock to come charging in anywhere – it had to be here and now.

"Norling," Sherlock nodded, his hands deep in the pockets of his long coat, turning to his sister-in-law with a brief twitch of his lips, "Cate."

"Who are you and why have you broken into my home and assaulted my staff?"

"Hardly _assaulted_ , Mr al Badour," Sherlock smiled briefly at John Watson who released Rashidi from an immobilising arm lock, brushing the guard's jacket down as if no harm was meant or had been done, and confirming the location of the man's pistol at the same time.

"What would you like me to do with them, sir?" the bodyguard clearly felt the need to reassert his menace in the room. His hand hovered over his lapel.

"Wait, Rashidi," Malik walked to face Sherlock.

"Who are you, and why are you here?" he said quietly. "Tell me very quickly or I shall have my man shoot you both and claim self-defence."

"In front of these witnesses?" Sherlock smiled broadly, shaking his head. "I doubt you'd do anything quite so foolish, Mr al Badour, especially when we've come here to save you the ignominy of a major, and very public, police inquiry."

Used to Sherlock's condescending bravado, John nevertheless decided to step fractionally closer to his friend in case things got a little hairy and he was needed to play the heavy. Well, _medium_ -heavy.

"What police inquiry?" Malik was completely at a loss. What was this man talking about?

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and my colleague and I are on the trail of a killer who murdered one of _his_ employees in the British Museum almost two weeks ago." Sherlock's index finger was pointing towards James Norling.

"Yeah," John interrupted. "Where _I_ discovered the victim," he jabbed at his own chest, "and nearly got the blame for the murder."

"You did say that Bow Bells Finance was one of yours, _yes_?" Sherlock turned sharply to Norling senior.

Clearing his throat, James Norling gathered his wits. "Yes," he muttered. "It was one of my employees, or at least, an employee of one of my subsidiary companies, who was killed at the museum."

"Interesting that you say 'killed' and not 'murdered'," Sherlock mused.

" _Holmes_?" Malik scowled even harder. " _Another_ Holmes?" He stared at Cate, who sighed and nodded.

"Sherlock is Mycroft's brother and my brother-in-law," she said splaying her fingers in the air. "What can I say?"

"Did you know he would be doing this today?" al Badour growled, staring at her. "Is this why you came here with my daughter?"

"My sister-in-law knows nothing of our investigation, Mr al Badour," Sherlock stated calmly. "It is simple coincidence that we are both here."

" _I do not believe in coincidence_ ," the Arab sliced his hand through the air. "But tell me again _exactly_ why you are here."

Sighing, Sherlock looked pained. "Do try and follow," he said. "My colleague and I have been tracking a brutal murderer who almost decapitated one of Norling's employees at the British Museum ten days ago," he paused, looking around the suite. "The man's throat was cut very efficiently. We tracked the murder's trail to this hotel and, we believe, to this very apartment, so I suggest, Mr al Badour," Sherlock spoke very slowly, almost insultingly. "That you save your anger for the serpent harboured in your bosom, rather than us."

"Then you are mistaken, Mr Holmes," Malik turned his back on the younger man. "There is nobody in this hotel suite except for me and Rashidi, and I can assure you that I was nowhere near the museum last week."

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "Rashidi is an Egyptian name, I believe," he nibbled his lower lip. "I see by your earring that you follow the ancient religion," he looked briefly at al Badour's guard. "And you are clearly a dangerous man, judging by your _penchant_ for large pistols – that's a SIG 226 you're carrying, if I'm not mistaken, the steel one; you can tell the weight by the way it distorts the line of your very well-tailored jacket, that, and the fact you also carry a knife strapped around your left calf – something vicious and lethal, of course – a Fairbairn, perhaps?"

Sherlock continued. "The murderer was an Egyptian male, aged between thirty and forty, wearing an ankh earring and walking with a slight limp in the left leg," he said. "Further, the man was tracked by CCTV when he took a cab which deposited him at the doors of this very hotel," he turned towards al Badour. "Would you care to imagine the odds against there being two such individuals staying at this establishment at the same time? I have," Sherlock gave a jerky smile, "and trust me, you don't want to hear the math."

Rashidi stepped forward, a complacent smile on his face. He took a few more steps towards the centre of the room and stood, silent and relaxed, hands clasped in front of him.

" _Limp_ ," Sherlock muttered. John nodded. He'd seen it too.

Yet something was very odd here: al Badour's bodyguard had been all but openly accused of a brutal murder; everything pointed to Rashidi being the killer, yet neither he nor al Badour seemed remotely phased by it, in fact, as Sherlock observed their body-language, he realised not only was the accusation not shocking, _it wasn't even a surprise_. It hadn't surprised James Norling either, although the younger man standing next to Cate – clearly Norling's son – seemed horrified. Glancing across at Cate and the girl who was obviously al Badour's daughter, Sherlock could see they were shocked too. This suggested the three men knew all about this before the others had arrived: they had colluded in the murder at the museum … _Ah_.

"So your man Rashidi killed Norling's underling at your instruction?" Sherlock nodded at Malik as the data clicked into the correct sequence. "But why? If Norling wanted someone out of the way, why involve a foreigner? There are plenty of perfectly capable assassins in London without any need to offshore a contract, so why did your bodyguard kill Norling's employee?" Sherlock stared at al Badour.

"You are fantasising this entire scenario, Holmes," Malik did not particularly want to have this conversation in front of the women. "Take your unfounded accusations away from my family before I call the police."

"No need," John grinned. "The police should be here any minute."

Norling senior had a very strange expression on his face. "The police are coming here?" he asked, "for him?" he added, pointing towards the bodyguard.

"Indeed they are," Sherlock examined the Londoner's features. Something was very amiss in this conversation. There was something just on the edge of understanding…

"You _want_ him taken by the police," the younger Holmes swivelled to face James Norling directly. "You want him out of this room, away from this place ... _why_?" Sherlock's eyes were narrowed and focused on some distant, unseeable point..

Malik al Badour also turned to the older man. "Is this true?" he asked. "Do you want the police to take Rashidi? This was not our arrangement."

"Our _arrangement_ ," Norling's lips compressed until his words were almost hissed. "Was that I would help you with your problem and you would assist me with mine."

Malik stood, dumfounded. " _You_?" he halted. " _You are my informant_? You have the name of the traitor in the Emir Talid's family?"

Nodding slowly, Norling turned to look at Rashidi. "It's him," he said.

" _Rashidi_ ..?" al Badour's face was part disbelief, part horror. " _You_?" his voice trailing into silence, Malik stared into the eyes of his bodyguard.

"Malik _Efendim_ ," the Egyptian began. "What is this madness? You cannot possibly give credit to anything these British _zebs_ tell you, you know they are only here to cause us all difficulties," he paused. "Let me deal with them and they will bother you no more."

But something in the man's voice told Malik his bodyguard was not speaking honestly.

"You have been with me all these years and yet you have been a traitor to me at the same time? You used the information you heard at my table and plotted against my Emir and his heir? _Rashidi_?"

As if a switch had been thrown, the Egyptian's face contorted into a feral snarl. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a large handgun which, despite its shiny good-looks was, as Sherlock had observed, a _serious_ piece of weaponry.

"Yes, it is _true_ ," he spat, aiming the gun in turn at al Badour and James Norling. "And the assassination of Hassan bin Khalid will take place as planned because nobody can stop it now."

Sherlock stepped closer to Cate, blocking the trajectory between the Egyptian's gun and her chair. Realising what Sherlock was doing, Cate took advantage of his action and leaned over to grab Medina's hand. The girl stood, utterly stunned by the revelations of the last several minutes. That her beloved father could be involved in such things. Cate pulled her slowly closer. Just in case.

"Stand back, Erik," the elder Norling wanted his son well out of this.

"Rashidi," al Badour stepped forward, focusing the man's attention on him. He held out his hand. "Give me the gun and we can speak of this situation like rational men."

"That's not going to work," Sherlock muttered to John. "Got your Browning?"

"Didn't think I'd need it at _the Dorchester_ ," John whispered. "If that magazine is full, there's fifteen rounds up the spout. He could kill us all twice-over if he wants to."

"Don't think we're going to give him that chance," Sherlock whispered back. "Be ready when I distract him."

"Right," John took a breath and began edging towards the Egyptian's blind spot behind Norling.

But Sherlock's distraction was unnecessary; al Badour's next action rendering anything else superfluous.

" _Rashidi_ ," Medina's father had both his hands open and lifted towards the man who had been his guard, his protector, and, so Malik had thought, his friend for more years than he could remember. The traitor he had been sent to find and destroy; the worm in the apple. Malik al Badour was sad that he'd never get to see his children grow old with families of their own, but this man was his responsibility and … what was it the woman had said … everyone should choose their own consequences …

Malik al Badour chose.

With a sudden leap, he hurled himself upon his erstwhile bodyguard, aiming to bring the man down so that Norling and the others could incapacitate the Egyptian.

Stupefied that his old friend and leader was prepared to sacrifice his life, Rashidi hesitated for a split-second before firing his pistol. Point-black, the bullet took al Badour squarely in the chest. He went down with a cry of agony.

Standing, Rashidi knew there was nothing left for him to lose now. He would have to kill them all.

Taking aim, he shot Norling first.


	9. Chapter 9

_The Assassin Strikes – To Paris – Just a London Cabbie – Doing You a Favour – The British Are Insane – The Meeting – Eurostar Offers Its Apologies – Mycroft – Sherlock._

 

 

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As Rashidi fired at James Norling, Medina screamed, covering her face with her fingers. Cate was too far from the assassin to be of any direct help in stopping him, so the next best thing would be to remove his targets. Vaulting over the back of her chair, she grabbed the girl and dragged her down to the floor, using the furniture as cover.

" _Get DOWN, Erik_ ," she shouted, reaching around the chair, groping for something to throw; her fingers found the hard shape of her coffee cup.

Norling senior had been hit, but it was impossible to see how badly. Erik crawled to his father's side.

At the moment that al Badour had leaped towards his bodyguard, John had also sprinted from Rashidi's right, while Sherlock, aware of Cate's actions, virtually flew towards the Egyptian's left.

With his immediate focus on the elder Norling, as well as perceiving rapid movement towards him from both sides, the killer's attention was split for a fraction of a second. In that moment, Cate threw the small porcelain cup as hard as she could at his head, missing its target, its passage nevertheless was enough to divert Rashidi's attention for another microsecond, enabling John to fulfil al Badour's objective as he crash-tackled the man to the ground. Sherlock was scarcely any slower, stamping down on the Egyptian's outflung wrist as Rashidi once again attempted to bring his weapon to bear.

Realising that his only chance for escape was to incapacitate these two men, Rashidi's desperation gave him an extra level of strength and determination, as he wrestled violently with the shorter blonde man, his large hands clawing at John's face and throat, he grunted with effort as he tried to pin the Briton down on the blood-soaked carpet next to the lifeless Malik.

Unable to get a clear strike or even a clear shot, Sherlock grabbed al Badour's laptop and, in one brief moment, as the Egyptian's head rose higher than John's, he brought the edge of the steel-framed device heavily into contact with the side of the man's skull. With a soft groan, Rashidi collapsed into unconsciousness next to the body of his erstwhile leader.

" _Pappa_ ," Medina screamed again, scrambling out of Cate's sheltering grasp and staggering across the sitting room to her father's side. Pulling him over, she saw his chest was covered in glistening blood; that it was all over his neck and arms.

" _Help me with him_ ," she begged everyone in the room. "Please help him."

Catching his breath, John pushed himself over to the fallen man, putting him onto his back and ripping open his blood-soaked jacket. Was there a pulse? Was there a heartbeat? His hands slippery with the warm blood, John nevertheless fancied there was _something_ beneath his fingertips.

"He's still alive," he muttered, peeling the man's shirt away from his chest, exposing a ghastly hole in the upper right quadrant. "Took it through the lung, need to get him sitting up so he doesn't drown."

"Ambulances on their way," Cate announced, flinging her phone down and jumping across to Erik and his dad.

"He's breathing but there's blood all over him," Erik was kneeling beside his father, hopelessly opening the older man's coat.

It was immediately obvious the man had taken the bullet right through the shoulder. Cate felt behind Norling's coat and found the exit wound, not large, but large enough. Looking around, she spotted the linen napkins room service had delivered with the coffee. "I need those," she pointed.

Erik was back beside her with the handful of fine white cloths in a matter of seconds, and watched warily as Cate balled up one, wrapping it inside another and held it against the wound in his father's back. Turning Norling so his own weight lay on top of the padded material, Cate repeated the action with another two napkins, pressing the second pad to the entry wound at the front.

"Put your hands here," she showed the boy what she wanted him to do. "And press down hard," she said. "Don't worry about hurting him, we need to get the bleeding stopped and can worry about everything else later. The ambulance will be here very soon. Don't worry, Erik," Cate sounded positive. "He's going to be fine."

Looking around to make sure there were no other immediate causes for alarm, Sherlock exhaled. "That was fun," he smiled brightly, ignoring John's floor-level tutting.

Striding over to where Cate was getting to her feet, he assisted her upwards journey and looked into her face.

"I'd ask if you were well," he said, "but that would be redundant."

"I'm fine, Sherlock," Cate smiled up into the grey-blue eyes of her brother-in-law. "Thank you for being concerned."

"Am I concerned?" he looked curious.

"Yes, you are, and I like you very much for it," she smiled. "Have you spoken to Mycroft recently?"

"Just before coming here, in fact," he analysed her. "My brother is _definitely_ concerned about your welfare and asked John and I to ensure your safety at this … meeting." Sherlock frowned. "Exactly what _was_ this meeting of yours?"

"Incredibly tortuous story," Cate nodded at the two young people. "It's all about them. They're my students."

"And they are the reason you've been living rough for the last ten days?"

"Did Mycroft tell you that?"

"Your eyebrows tell me that," he smiled fleetingly. "Look," he said. "None of my business, but are you and my brother …?"

"Are we what, Sherlock?" Cate looked patient.

"Together."

Smiling, Cate squeezed Sherlock's long fingers. "Yes," she said. "We are, just in different places at the moment."

"Then everything is well with the world," he smiled brightly. "The ambulances should be here soon."

Turning to look back at where John was still ministering to the unconscious al Badour, an unexpected movement caught the corner of her eye. Focusing, Cate realised …

"John, _look out_ …" she shouted, as the Egyptian suddenly threw himself upright, a wickedly sharp fighting knife in his right hand.

"Fairbairn," Sherlock muttered. "Knew it."

"Don't come any closer to me or I will kill you," Rashidi hissed.

With his hands full of unconscious Arab, John couldn't have moved swiftly even had he wanted to. Medina shrank back, terrified.

"Oh, dear _God_ ," Sherlock had his hands in his pockets and looked about as weary of the situation as he possibly could. " _Still_? You must have an incredibly dense skull," he said. "That knock should have kept you immobilised for at least another eleven minutes."

"Do not _speak_ to me," the Egyptian brandished the blade. "I am leaving this room and no-one is to follow me, is this understood?"

Hands still in his pockets, Sherlock strolled a little closer. "Off you go, then," he suggested.

Backing away, his eyes darting between Sherlock and John and Erik, the ex-bodyguard made his way towards the main entrance to the suite, an expression of scorn and distaste on his face.

Flinging open the door in his haste to leave, Rashidi suddenly found himself staring into the business-end of a police-issue, short-barrelled L22 carbine. Despite his desire to leave, he knew when the only feasible action was retreat. Rashidi stepped back into the apartment, his hands in the air. Several additional authorised firearms officers entered the suite's plush hallway, each with a blunt, short weapon pointed half-way between the floor and the horizontal.

Greg Lestrade walked through the door following his officers, just as a team of Ambulance paramedics barrelled in behind him. Two collapsible stretchers soon had the wounded men heading towards the service lift.

"So which one's Malik al Badour?" the Inspector walked slowly down the lavishly carpeted steps into the main lounge area of the suite. "I'm here to arrest one of his people on the suspicion of murder."

Tweaking a brow, Sherlock watched the man the armed police had flattened against the wall. "You took your time getting here, Lestrade," he said. "Malik is on one of those stretchers," he nodded towards Rashidi. "That's your killer, Inspector," he said. "You're welcome to him after we all nearly died in an effort to keep him from shooting down half the Dorchester's guests."

Scanning the disordered sitting room, Lestrade nodded. "Looks like you've been having fun here," he said. "Bit of a party, was it?"

Listening to Sherlock explain the basics of the last ten-minutes, the Inspector felt reasonably up to speed when he saw the Professor.

"Hello Greg," Cate was still trying to clean up her hands. "You missed the show."

" _Cate_ ," the silver-haired Londoner gave her a genuine smile. "Mycroft said you might be here."

"You spoke with him recently?"

"Yeah, just before I left the office – he was particularly keen to know how long it'd take for me to get a team here – something about you meeting one of the most lethal men in London," Lestrade paused, looked around bleakly. "I see what he meant," he said. "Never known the man so jumpy."

"Apart from being jumpy, did he sound okay? Did he sound tired?" Cate wanted to hear that Mycroft was fine, that he was well, and that he was functioning normally. She realised she was quite anxious to hear these things, in fact.

Giving her an odd look, Lestrade stepped closer; his words were private. "Why don't you call him," he said. "If you two have had a row, you need to talk about it."

"He doesn't want to talk to me about it," Cate closed her eyes. "He doesn't want to listen to me."

"Then I'd say he's a bloody fool," Greg Lestrade frowned. "Except Mycroft isn't a fool, so perhaps you need to find a different way to make him hear you?"

Cate looked stumped. "In that case," she said, "I have to take Medina out of London. Out of the country would be better," sighing, she looked serious. "He'll only stop to listen when the problem is no longer in Britain."

"Sounds a little drastic," he said. "Is this the only alternative?"

"Mycroft wants the girl and her father out of the country – Medina's father is now his concern, but I'm damned if I'm going to keep having my student hounded like a criminal." Cate was fatalistic. "So I'll get her out myself."

"Where are you planning to go?" the Inspector knew he was asking Cate to trust him. Looking into his hazel eyes, she frowned.

"If I tell you and he asks," she said, "will you tell him?"

"Do you want me to tell him?"

"I think so," Cate nodded. "None of what I'm doing is a secret; I'm not hiding from him, only the police and MI5."

"So where are you planning on going?" Lestrade was rather curious now. Something major was afoot.

"Paris," Cate said. "I'm going to take Medina to Paris."

"Do you need help?"

"There may be a problem with the customs officers at St. Pancras," she rubbed her eyes. "I just need to get her past British security and then we should be fine."

"When will you go?" Lestrade looked at the two young people. "She probably won't want to leave if her father's in hospital."

"This has to be entirely her decision," she acknowledged. "If she agrees to come with me, will you allow Medina to go? I know there's an arrest warrant out for her."

"The order is to have her taken to the Home Office holding centre to await deportation," Greg Lestrade grinned. "So if you're planning on taking her to Paris, you're doing my job for me – why would I want to stop you from doing that?"

"You're a peach," Cate squeezed his arm. "I'll go and speak to her now. Give me five minutes."

Stepping over to where Erik was holding Medina's hand, comforting the young woman, Cate pulled their sleeves, drawing them into the other room. "We have to talk," she said.

"You're plotting something," Sherlock came up beside the policeman. "What is it?"

"Not plotting, Sherlock," Lestrade smiled. " _Facilitating_." He smiled some more. "And as to exactly _what_ I am facilitating, it's none of your business."

"Oh, so it's something to do with Cate and the girl, then?" Sherlock nodded in satisfaction. "So what is it? The way Cate's been so protective suggests there's an obligation of some sort. It's not family-related, and the girl's her student. International student by the simple fact her father is a foreign national; thus Cate is championing the girl's cause … now what on earth could you be _facilitating_ for her?" Sherlock paused, thinking. A smile dawned on his face.

"Oh … this is _Mycroft's_ work," Sherlock looked superior. "Clearly the father is one of his pet projects and Cate, who coincidentally _happens_ to be the girl's supervisor, has taken umbrage with my brother's handling of the situation." He nodded knowingly. "Typical Mycroft to put his clumsy great foot into things."

"And none of this has anything to do with you, so just drop it, Sherlock," the Inspector did not want to get into it right now. He was breaking enough rules as it was.

In the other room, Cate had laid out the alternatives to Erik and Medina.

"If you stay here, with your father," she said, "And I know how much you want to do that Medina, you will be arrested and taken to the deportation holding facility until the next available flight out to your country."

"But I want to see my father, to be with him," the girl was nearly in tears.

"I know you do, sweetheart," Cate was sympathetic. "And the police might actually allow you to see him once before you are shipped off home, but then you'd not be able to see him again until he is well enough to return home himself, assuming they let him go."

"So what exactly are you suggesting we do, Professor?" Despite the fact that his own father was also going to be in hospital, Erik sounded a little more grounded.

"Medina should come with me to Paris," Cate said. "I'm fairly sure the police will turn a blind eye to her as long as she's leaving the country in any case – they'll only arrest her if she decides she wants to stay."

"And if I go to Paris with you, will I be able to come back and see my father?" Medina sounded hopeful.

"With both you and your father either under twenty-four hour observation or out of Britain altogether, the urgency of the problem will have subsided," Cate was certain. "This will enable me to … tackle the issue of your reinstatement without other things getting in the way," she said. "Though I can't promise anything," she added. "There is an alternative."

"And what is that?" Medina wanted to know anything that she might be able to do.

"You go into the other room and ask Inspector Lestrade to take you to see your father. Once he has allowed you to do this, he will then have his police officers take you to the deportation holding centre until you can be flown home." Cate looked the young woman directly in the eyes. "This must be your choice now," she said. "I can't tell you what actions might be the best, because you are the one who will have to live with the results of them."

"But what if my father dies?"

Cate said nothing. This might indeed happen. Medina had to decide.

"Very well," the girl looked at Erik, then at Cate. " _Paris_."

"Then I'm coming too," Erik looked determined. Cate wasn't surprised at his choice; she had expected it.

"We need passports," Cate said. "Do you guys have yours handy?"

"I always carry mine with me," Medina said. "After living so long overseas, it becomes a habit."

"And I have mine too," Cate nodded. "Erik?"

"Mine's at my parent's house, but I can probably get it delivered here fairly quickly.

"Right, do that," Cate said. "I'm going to organise us all some clean clothes."

Looking down at themselves, Erik and Medina realised it might be a little difficult to walk unnoticed down the street, covered in blood.

"How are you going to manage that?" Erik was already on the phone to Redding.

"I know the Deputy Concierge here," she smiled knowingly at his raised eyebrow. "Used to be a student of mine."

 

 

###

Once she had advised Lestrade that all three of them would be heading to France that very afternoon, the tall Londoner nodded his understanding.

"Very well," he said. "In that case, I won't exercise the warrant for the girl at this time," he looked serious. "But she has to be out of Britain by the end of the day or we'll all be in hot water. Me especially."

Cate had promised faithfully that they'd be gone as soon as Erik had his passport and they all cleaned up a little.

Sherlock hadn't been quite so easy to disengage.

"You're leaving London?" he was mildly critical. "Running away?"

Ignoring the bait, Cate looked into his slightly narrowed eyes.

"If we stay, the girl is arrested and deported," she said. "I have little choice but to get her away from here."

Sherlock was momentarily silent. "Do you need help?"

Smiling her camaraderie, Cate wrapped an arm around his neck and kissed him swiftly on the cheek. "No, I don't need your help," she said. "But I'm very happy that you offered."

Sitting on the arm of a chair, Sherlock had folded his arms and looked sceptical.

"Are you going to tell Mycroft or is that Lestrade's job too?" he asked.

Cate sighed. "All Mycroft wants is for the girl and her father to be gone from the country; Greg will call him when we're _enroute_."

"Terminal Three?"

Cate smiled again. Her brother-in-law was incurably curious. "Not Heathrow," she said. "St Pancras."

"Ah. _Eurostar_."

"Goodbye, Sherlock," she said. "See you when all this is over."

Giving her a peculiar little look, Sherlock stuck his hands into his pockets and swirled away in his long, dark coat.

 

 

###

Despite the anxiety of the situation, all three were showered and dressed in their new finery within an hour – the _Concierge_ at the Dorchester dealt only with the finest of couturiers, _naturally_ ; even the jeans he acquired for them were designer – and ready to head towards the International offices of Eurostar. Cate thanked her foresight in getting such a large chunk of cash from her bank – the three, one-way train tickets had cost almost two thousand pounds; at such short notice, only First-class had been left. Never mind; it would be pleasant to rest in comfortable surroundings for a little while.

Before they left the hotel, Cate had taken advantage of the landline phone and had called a couple of people she knew in Paris. They may as well use the visit there to kill two birds with one stone. One of the friends Cate had called was the current Rector of L'Ecole d'économie at the _Pantheon-Assas_ Université – part of the Sorbonne. She had a feeling a meeting with the man might be very useful.

Heading down in the lift, Medina caught her hand and squeezed.

"Brave, now," Cate whispered. "With luck, this will soon be all over."

Knowing the police wouldn't be watching any more, Cate kept her eyes skinned just in case she spotted anyone who _was_. With the Police off their backs, at least momentarily, the only ones they had to worry about now were MI5. They had been uncomfortably invisible which suggested not that they were still looking, but that they were really good at not being seen. If MI5 caught them before they boarded the train …

A taxi awaited outside the front entrance of the hotel, whisking them smoothly and swiftly into traffic. It wasn't until they were barrelling down Marylebone Road that Erik noticed the dark sedan behind them.

"I think we might have been spotted," he whispered.

" _Damn_." Cate knew immediately it had to be what she feared. Time to improvise. Tapping the driver's safety screen, Cate waved two fifty-pound notes and spoke quietly into his ear.

"My ex-husband has put private detectives onto me," she said, hopelessly. "They're in the sedan behind us, can you lose them do you think?"

"I can lose anyone, my dear," the driver said with a smile in his voice. Taking the bribe, he suggested they all tighten their seatbelts.

In the next moment, the black cab veered madly to the left, then the right, another left and went flat-out down a long straight. Cate wasn't sure where they were, but she thought she recognised parts of Regents Park flashing by. The driver continued jinking and swerving for a good few minutes before moving smoothly back on their original course.

The dark sedan was nowhere in sight.

"You're a genius," Cate breathed. "Thank you."

"Just a London Cabbie, Ma'm," he said. "Always wanted to do that, though," he grinned massively in the rear-view mirror.

 

 

###

"They're heading _where_?" Mycroft turned to stare at the silver-haired policeman standing just inside the door to his private office. Both his tone and his expression were icily critical.

"Mycroft, don't get narky with me," Lestrade looked patient. "I'm doing you a favour by telling you this early enough for you to do something about it," he sighed. "Dunno what's gotten into the pair of you," he muttered. "You're as jumpy as a cat in case she gets into trouble, and she's all over me to find out if you're sleeping properly, _honestly_ ," Lestrade paused, smiling at the elder Holmes. "Anyone would think you were worried about each other."

"Did Cate say what train she had tickets for?" Mycroft had already decided the two things he needed to do now.

"Only that she was going to take the girl to Paris by Eurostar from St Pancras Station," the Inspector said. "The boy will probably want to go along with his girlfriend," he grinned. "Now _there's_ a young man who knows how to look after the woman in his life."

"Yes, _thank you_ , Inspector," Mycroft managed to maintain a civil temper. "Don't let me detain you."

Walking out through Mycroft's office door, the grin on Greg Lestrade's face got even bigger.

 

 

###

With tickets and passports in hand, Cate cleared her throat and started to walk down the long carpeted corridor towards the customs desks. She could feel the nervousness radiating off Medina in solid waves. She had to do something.

"What's the definition of a good farmer?" Cate asked them, quite loudly.

"What?" Erik was feeling worried enough without having to answer some daft question.

"A man outstanding in his field," Cate smiled suddenly. "Where did George Washington keep his armies?" she linked her arm through Medina's. The girl looked at her as if she had gone mad. "Up his sleevies." Cate grinned. "What happened when the red ship and the blue ship collided?" she grinned harder. "Both crews were _marooned_ …"

Erik closed his eyes and groaned. "That's awful," he said. "What do sharks say when something radical happens?" he asked, grinning at Medina.

 _Yes_ , the girl thought. _The British are entirely insane_.

" _Jawsome_ ," he smiled.

"What washes up on tiny beaches?" Cate asked, laughing now.

Erik leaned in "I know this one," he laughed too. " _Microwaves_."

"You are both completely mad," Medina couldn't help but grin with them.

They reached the checkpoint still grinning. Cate went in first, handing over her ticket and passport. In a second, she was through.

"How many doctoral candidates does it take to change a light bulb?" she challenged them from the other side of the counter.

Handing their tickets and passports over, Medina and Erik shrugged, smiling.

"One, but it takes him _nine_ _years_ ," Cate started grinning again as the two young people giggled knowingly. They were both waved through without incident.

Heading onwards, Cate exhaled loudly. _Thank God, that was over_. Now all they had to do was find their seats.

 

 

###

The meeting, hurriedly convened though it was, took place in an atmosphere of calm and tranquillity. In a secure wing of a government building located near the centre of Whitehall, in a large, dim room, around a circular table, were three men. In a chair behind each man sat a Second. Anthea sat behind Mycroft, her Blackberry absent for once as she watched and listened, a small notebook in her hands.

On one side of her was Donald Parker, Director-General of MI5, backed up by his London Section Chief, Edward Cardin; while across the table sat the Emir Talid's heir-apparent, one Hassan bin Khalid. In the place that would normally have seen Malik al Badour, sat some unknown assistant, but no doubt a very clever and incredibly _alert_ assistant.

"Is he alive?" Khalid was the first to speak, his words soft, but self-possessed.

Nodding, Mycroft met the man's eyes. "He is still in surgery, I believe," he said. "However the prognosis is favourable."

"And what of the man Rashidi?"

"Also alive," Mycroft nodded again. "The Egyptian is being held in secure custody in a safe place until a decision has been made as to his future."

"I want him," Hassan crossed his legs, his immaculate suit barely wrinkling. "I would have him returned to my country for official justice."

"We might also want him," Parker leaned slightly forward. "He is clearly no friend to the House Talid, and it would be myopic of us to permit such a valuable source of potential information to simply … leave."

"He is not yours to detain," bin Khalid frowned. "He is a citizen of my country now, and must be returned to our justice."

"A death-sentence?" Mycroft looked down at his fingers.

"Our laws are simple," the Arab leader nodded, sagely. "If Rashidi is found to be guilty of plotting death, then he will receive it."

"If he is returned to your country, bin Khalid." Parker sat back, complacent. " _If_."

"Our agreement has held for many years," Mycroft sounded reflective. "Each one of us being informed of changes in leadership and political influence," he paused. "It has been a productive arrangement."

"But if the leadership of my house is changed, I can no longer guarantee the arrangement will continue," bin Khalid was philosophical. "I need to demonstrate I will be a responsible and effective leader. I need Rashidi to face justice."

"Then we may need a new agreement," Mycroft looked up. "A different arrangement."

Both Parker and bin Khalid looked suspicious. It was not in either man's nature to be otherwise.

"I suggest we consider what it is we expect now from this cabal," Mycroft leaned forward onto the table, steepling his fingers.

_That which may be thought._

"I require the ongoing support of the West in my dealings both internally with international organisations, and externally, with political reinforcement of our leadership," bin Khalid folded his arms.

"I want information of _any_ major change; political, social, economic," Parker also leaned forward, resting his palms flat against the polished wood. "Ongoing, current, relevant."

"And I desire world peace," Mycroft shook his head, smiling. "Gentlemen, we must be realistic."

_That which may be said._

"Support from the West for my leadership," bin Khalid nodded grudgingly.

"Information of major political change _before_ it happens," Parker sat back, folding his arms.

_That which may be done._

"We can support your leadership and your family as we have done these past years."

"I can ensure relevant information is made available to you to ensure continued collaboration."

"You can have Rashidi."

_All else was detail._

"Is there anything else to be discussed?" Mycroft looked at the other participants in this meeting.

_A Protocol._

"I will arrange for al Badour to come home as soon as your doctors deem him well enough to travel," bin Khalid said. "I do not know what the situation is with his daughter."

Mycroft opened his half-hunter, clicking the polished silver closed with another smile. "The girl has left British waters at this time," he said. "I believe this matter is now closed."

_Of three parts. The Trivium._

Leaning back towards Anthea, Mycroft asked her to organise a formal draft of the new Heads of Agreement, with copies to all parties for discussion and preliminary approval.

He also asked her to have the Jaguar brought around to the front entrance immediately. He was a little pressed for time.

"To go where, Sir?" Anthea was already on her phone.

"St Pancras Station," Mycroft said. International departures."

 

 

###

They were seated in a grouping of four, with the odd seat empty. Cate was pleased by this since it meant they could talk without fear of being spied upon.

"I've never travelled under the Channel before," Erik sat, looking out of the bullet-train windows. "Is it exciting?"

The drone of the engine and the siren of departure sounded. They were finally on their way.

"Incredibly dull," Cate relaxed back into her very comfortable seat. "Everything goes dark for about twenty minutes or so, and when you see daylight again, it's the French variety."

" _Oh_ ," Medina was disappointed. "I thought we'd see fish through the windows."

Cate and Erik looked at each other and smiled.

"Sorry," Erik apologised at Medina's peeved expression. "But we're in a deep, deep tunnel under the sea."

"Oh well, never mind," the young woman also relaxed back into her seat. "I've always wanted to go to Paris."

"There is another reason I suggested Paris and not Rome or Berlin," Cate admitted. "And that's because I have contacts at the Sorbonne, and I'm trying to arrange for you to meet them."

"The Sorbonne?" Erik sounded impressed. "Isn't that where all the posh French people go?"

"You are sadly misinformed, young man," Medina laughed. "People from everywhere go there."

"It's got a great reputation for teaching economics," Cate observed Erik's face carefully. This was what he was supposed to attend Yale for in the New Year. "It's a very cool place to study."

Giving her a sharp look, Erik's face was a study in reflection. _Not_ go to America? It was his father's wish … _his_ _father's_ _wish_ …

"Paris would certainly be more convenient than Connecticut," he said. "I could bring my laundry home at the weekends."

"I always wanted to live in Paris," Medina was thoughtful.

"Avez-vous tous les deux parlent le français?" Cate asked slowly.

"Main _oui_!" Medina grinned happily.

Erik didn't look so comfortable. "If you just asked me if I could speak French, then the answer is kind of," he muttered.

"I could teach you," Medina grabbed his arm, smiling.

"Seriously, Erik," Cate looked teacherly. "Learning French is a basic requirement these days, and it's very easy."

"If you say so," he didn't sound convinced.

"Well, we're already at the Channel," Cate said looking out at the windows. It's all going to go dark now, so don't panic."

With a gentle, silent and barely perceptible decline, the entire train gradually entered a realm of complete blackness beyond the brightly lit interior. A steward came around with drinks and light edibles. Erik discovered that, despite the drama of the day and the worry about his father, he was starving.

"Dive in," Cate smiled. "Have whatever you want."

By her reckoning, the train was about half-way through the tunnel when the speed began to decrease quite noticeably. This was unusual. She looked around for a steward. Something was up. The train gradually roiled to a complete halt.

An announcement came through the train's speaker system.

" _Ladies and Gentlemen. Eurostar offers its sincere apologies, but, due to a technical fault, we will be returning immediately to London. There is no reason for alarm, this is a minor issue, but we cannot cross into mainland France until it has been resolved. Once again, our most sincere apologies at the delay. Please speak with a steward if you wish anyone to be advised of your late arrival at the Gare du Nord_."

The message was repeated in French, not that it made the situation any better. After all the trouble to leave the country, they were now returning to Britain!

"Not to worry," Cate tried to maintain an optimistic outlook. "We'll probably be stuck at Folkestone or Dover or somewhere while a toilet is fixed. It'll be fine."

But when the train arrived at the British coast, it showed no indication of slowing, in fact, the speed actually increased. They were heading back to London.

Less than thirty minutes later, the train decelerated as the silhouette of the St Pancras International terminal appeared. They were right back to where they had begun over an hour-and-a-half ago.

Cate began to suspect foul-play. She had never been on a London to Paris before which had been in any way delayed, let alone called home. Something was very definitely wrong here. Her antenna were twitching madly.

Another announcement asked that all passengers debark the train, taking their baggage with them, until a replacement train could be manoeuvred into the siding.

As they had no luggage, the three of them were able to step off without any fuss, looking around warily as they did.

There was something about this situation that Cate felt was deeply wrong. She began to sense a contrivance here; something done to cover a different action entirely.

" _Cate_."

Looking up the platform towards the sound of her name, she saw the Inspector. What on earth was Greg Lestrade doing here … had he changed his mind about allowing Medina to leave the country? How did he even know to be here?

The silver-haired policeman walked over to her, a smile on his face as he looked down into her worried eyes.

" _Relax_ ," he said. "The problem's over and you can all go home."

"What are you talking about?" Cate was confused. She shook her head trying to make sense of what she was hearing.

"I had a call from Mycroft," Lestrade said. "Apparently some deal has been done with the powers-that-be, and we've all been called off. The police, MI5, everyone. The girl can stay here if she wants to stay."

Her legs suddenly felt very heavy, Cate needed to sit down. Watching her face pale, Lestrade swiftly assisted her to a nearby bench seat where she rested, breathing deeply. Erik ran to a drinks dispenser for a bottle of cold water.

" _Just like that_?" she asked, incredulously, shaking her head. "After everything we've been through, he thinks he can snap his fingers and make it all better?"

"You can go home, Cate," the Inspector said. "It's all over."

"No, it's not over," Cate shook her head. "This is not finished yet."

 

 

###

Looking down at the concourse from his elevated location, Mycroft watched the entire play. He saw the three of them emerge from the train, saw Cate turn at what was obviously the sound of her name; saw her uncertain smile as Inspector Lestrade greeted her with the news that the problem was no more.

When he saw Cate stagger slightly, he all but rushed down to the platform, but forced himself to remain watching as Lestrade helped her to a seat, where she held her head in her hand. The news had been something of a shock, no doubt.

Mycroft hadn't realised he'd been holding his breath until it came out in a rush when he saw his wife shake her head. She did it twice. A chill tightness grew in his chest.

Cate didn't want to come home.

 

 

###

Looking down at the brightly-lit walkway above the platform, Sherlock watched the entire play from the windows of the main building. He saw Cate and the others greeted by Lestrade; he saw them talking and observed as she sank onto a nearby seat. Clearly, she was upset at Lestrade's news, whatever it was. He watched her shaking her head, and also watched as his brother's shoulders dropped. Mycroft had been behind the recall of the train; he hadn't wanted Cate to ever leave the country. But now it seemed his brother's actions might have come too late to resolve the problem between them.

Making a face, Sherlock decided this would not do. Mycroft needed help, and for once, he would not have to ask for it.


	10. Chapter 10

_Not Over Yet – An Unexpected Passenger – Unparalleled Blackmail – The Return – You Took Too Much – Always – A Present of the Present – The Fortitude of Saints – The Trivium Protocol._

#

#

"What do you mean, 'isn't over'?" Erik asked. "If everyone has stopped chasing Medina and she can stay, then what's the problem?"

Cate shook her head, looking at Lestrade. "Who gave you this information?"

The Inspector seemed puzzled. "Got a direct call from my Super," he said. "Telling me the arrest warrant had been withdrawn, that all other interested parties were no longer interested, and that the girl could stay as her visa had been renewed."

"And do the police have the authority to reactivate an international student visa?" Cate's eyes were wide with anger.

Lestrade thought. _Nope_ : not usually something the police did. _Ah_.

"I see Mycroft's hand in this," Cate took a deep breath. "But until Medina is once again my student, then this is _not_ over."

"So what are we going to do now?" Medina was confused.

"You," Cate looked at the girl. "Are going to accompany Erik who is taking you to meet his mother, aren't you Erik?"

"I _am_?" the young man's eyebrows met his hairline. He checked Cate's expression. "Apparently, I am," he smiled at Medina. "You'll like her."

"And what are _you_ planning?" the Inspector was beginning to experience a sense of disquiet. He had seen the Professor when she was angry. She tended to _do_ things.

"I'm going to see my chief," nodding, Cate took another deep breath and stood up from the bench. "Would it be possible," she asked Lestrade, "considering all the fuss the police have made hunting us, for you to drop these two off at Erik's place?"

Greg nodded slowly. "Not a problem," he said. "Sure you don't want to be taken home first?" Lestrade felt he at least had to try.

"I'm going to grab a cab and have a little chat with my VC first," Cate looked purposeful.

Giving Medina a hug, she smiled again. "I'll be seeing you soon," she said. "Don't worry; everything's going to work itself out."

Turning to the lanky ex-blonde, she looked at him critically. "Your roots are showing," she hugged him too. "Take care of Medina and get her to see her father if you can."

"Will do, Prof," the boy frowned. "You sure you don't need any help? I mean," he said self-consciously. "We're a team now."

"This is something I have to do alone, I think," she said. "Hopefully, I'll see you on campus again very soon."

Feeling an odd lump in her throat, Cate strode off along the platform towards the exit, almost running in her haste to get this entire situation over and done with. There were cabs everywhere as she reached the kerb, raising her hand in a hail.

As one pulled in for her, Cate opened the back door and stepped in, just as a second body stepped in behind her, claiming the adjacent seat.

" _Sherlock_?"

"Whatever you're about to do, it's probably a bad idea and you shouldn't do it,' he said, giving her an ambiguous look.

"Where to, Miss?" the Cabbie wanted to know.

"University College in Gower Street, please," Cate twisted in her seat to stare at her brother-in-law.

"You have no idea what I'm going to do," she frowned. "And even if it were a bad idea, it's _my_ bad idea, not yours."

"You weren't going to see Mycroft?"

"No," Cate shook her head. "Going to see my employer and persuade him to take Medina and Erik back as students and let me keep my job."

"So you're not planning mariticide?"

"You want to know if I'm thinking of murdering Mycroft?"

"I _mean_ ," Sherlock was reflective. "You'd probably be fully within your rights, and even the _greenest_ of newly-qualified barristers would be able to argue a pretty watertight case of justifiable homicide, but on the whole, I'd rather you didn't."

"You are such a _ninny_ , Sherlock," Cate poked him in the shoulder, grinning.

"So," he confirmed, "not murder, then?"

"Not murder," she shook her head.

Sherlock nodded, satisfied. "Apparently James Norling is conscious," he changed the subject. "He's crediting John with saving all of us, which is good news for John."

"How so?"

"Long story, but let's just say a debt has been paid."

"I like it when things are concluded properly," Cate mused. "Let's hope the boss does too."

"And your boss would be ..?"

The VC," Cate narrowed her eyes. "Charles Shelsher."

"Shelsher?" Sherlock made a face. "Career administrator? Then the man's a born bureaucrat; anything that smacks remotely of trouble, he'll want to disown."

"In which case, I'm going to have to be brilliantly diplomatic and convincing, aren't I?"

Turning to look at her, Sherlock snickered. "Brilliantly diplomatic?"

"I'm better at it than you are," Cate was miffed.

"Barely," he critiqued. "You need my assistance."

"Do I?" Cate lifted her eyebrows.

"Indeed," Sherlock cleared his throat. "Between us, we should be able to muster a reasonably judicious argument."

"I warn you now, Sherlock," Cate sounded deadly serious. "If you get me fired, I'm going to come and clean your flat every day until I get another job," she said, meeting his eyes. "Every _single_ day."

"You wouldn't."

"Freezer, fridge, under the sink," she nodded. " _Everything_ ," she added. "Could take me _months_ to find another job. Who _knows_ what I might have thrown out in the interim?"

"You've been around Mycroft too long," Sherlock threw her a cool glance.

Cate patted the back of his hand. "Brother, _dear_ ," she said, smiling out of the window.

The VC was in his study – he usually was this time of day – when Cate and Sherlock walked into the outer office.

"Hello, Annie, any chance I might speak with Charles, please?" Cate stood patiently with her hands in her coat pockets while Sherlock indulged his omnipresent curiosity by peering at everything.

Returning, the Secretary looked uncomfortable. "Sorry, Professor Adin-Holmes," she said. "I'm afraid the Vice-Chancellor's dreadfully busy at the moment and isn't seeing anyone."

" _Nonsense_ ," Sherlock huffed past the young woman, striding towards the inner sanctum.

"Remember, Sherlock," Cate hissed, following. " _Months_."

"Good _afternoon_ , Vice-Chancellor," Sherlock swept in, offering his hand. "So pleased to finally meet you – my sister-in-law's been telling me all sorts of incredible things about your work."

Caught reading the Telegraph, Charles Shelsher stood uncertainly, shaking the outstretched hand, noticing Cate as she strolled in behind Sherlock's whirlwind.

"Sister-in-law?" Shelsher was hesitant.

"Mycroft's brother, Sherlock," Cate smiled, taking a seat. "Hello, Charles."

Dropping back into his own chair, the VC took a supportive breath. Not sufficient that his old room-mate from Oxford should bring government pressure to bear, but now his – clearly younger – brother as well? _Judas Priest_.

"I've already done precisely as Mycroft stipulated," Shelsher said. "As you already know, the student Medina al Badour, is gone, her enrolment rescinded and her visa revoked."

"There's been a change of plan," Cate leaned her elbows on the front of her VC's desk. "Medina is being permitted to stay in Britain, and you promised you'd reconsider her enrolment if this should ever happen."

"But … _ah_ … it's all getting a bit messy now," the VC floundered. "Should the press ever get to hear of any of this, the university would be in a very delicate situation. Best not to, I think. Under the circumstances."

A smile formed on Sherlock's mouth. "You think that's all the press will get to hear?" he asked. "What about your _affaire_ with the secretary?" he looked pointedly towards the outer-office. " _Annie_ , isn't it?"

" _Affaire_?" Cate was wary. Sherlock's idea of judicious was … unconventional.

"What affaire?" Charles sat bolt upright. "There's been nothing of the sort, you have my _word_."

"Ah, Vice-Chancellor," Sherlock plonked himself in the other chair before the VC's desk. "But where there's smoke …"

"And then there's the fraud," Quick on the uptake, Cate cheerfully joined in. "All those alumni donations vanishing, just like that," she tutted slowly, shaking her head. " _Charles_. How could you?"

"This is _blackmail_!" The Vice-Chancellor was turning pink.

"Unparalleled," Sherlock was quite cheerful.

"Did we mention the drug-parties in the Senior Commons ..?" Cate linked her fingers.

" _Drugs_?" Sherlock sounded surprised. "I heard they were orgies."

"Oh damn you, _very well_!" Shelsher slammed his hand onto the desk. "The girl may return as a student if she wants to do so."

"And the boy, Erik Norling?"

"Yes, yes," Charles admitted defeat. "Him as well."

"And Cate stays on as a Professor?" Sherlock wanted to be quite clear.

"Yes, of course, anything she wants."

Looking at his sister-in-law, Sherlock was deadpan. " _Is_ there anything else you want?" he asked. "Now would seem to be an expedient time to ask."

"Everything to be put in writing, with the relevant details sent to each student by close of business today," she looked thoughtful.

"Anything else?" the VC sat back in his deep leather chair, an expression of bemusement on his face.

"Not a thing, thank you, Charles," Cate smiled, standing. "I'll see you next week. I'll even buy you a coffee."

"Anything you buy me will probably prove too rich for my blood," he sighed, not entirely unhappily. It would be good to have things back to normal. "Until next week, my dear Cate."

Outside the office, Sherlock looked at her knowingly.

"You're going to take the students elsewhere, aren't you?" he said.

"As soon as I can arrange places for them," she said. "Together, at the Sorbonne, if they want to go."

"If they want to go?" Sherlock was puzzled.

Turning to the tall man beside her, Cate found herself smiling at him for the same reason she sometimes smiled at Mycroft. "They will be able to make their own choices now," she looked pleased. "It's their life."

"And what of your choices and your life?"

Cate took a really deep breath. "Now I can go home," she said.

Sherlock said nothing, but the faint smile on his face was rather telling.

###

Even though the hour was relatively early, it was well into dusk, nearly dark, when she arrived at the townhouse with the stuff from the flat in Islington.

The act of unlocking the front door and walking into the diffuse gleam of the kitchen felt oddly foreign, almost as if she were entering somebody else's house. Flicking on the light, Cate thought about making some tea, and headed towards the kettle, stopping short when she realised she was not alone.

Mycroft leaned casually in the doorway of the drawing-room, one hand holding a drink, the other lodged indifferently in a trouser pocket. Looking at her, he sipped from the crystal tumbler but said nothing. There was something of an atmosphere.

" _Hello_ ," Cate paused, awkward, feeling almost a stranger. "I wasn't expecting to see you until later."

"That much is obvious," his voice was cool, unsympathetic; his tone vaguely acidic.

"Now that the … problem has been resolved," Cate continued, "I thought perhaps it was the right time to discuss our situation."

"Did you now?" Mycroft threw back the rest of his Scotch, placing the empty tumbler carefully on the granite bench top, his movements so precise and economic, Cate wondered momentarily if he were drunk. Whatever he was, judging by the taut line of his face, it wasn't happy. Maybe tomorrow would be a better time to talk: perhaps the light of day might make this easier.

"Shall I come back in the morning?" she asked, wearily. "I'm in no mood to fight."

"No need," Mycroft had both hands in his pockets now as he walked closer. "One way or another, this won't take long. We may as well have it out tonight."

Steeling herself, Cate faced him squarely. "What won't take long?"

Pausing, Mycroft stared down at the polished toe of his shoe before lifting his gaze to hers, his eyes an unfathomable blue smoulder. He took a quick breath.

"You left me," he said, quietly. "You left me and went away." The accusation hung icily between them.

"You made it clear I was an obstacle to your work," Cate lifted her chin and met his fixed stare. She was not about to lie down and claim _mea culpa_.

"You left me," Mycroft's voice dropped softly into dangerous territory. "Without telling me when, or _if_ , you were coming back."

Swallowing against the sudden lump in her throat, Cate felt the sting of injustice. "You had no thought for anything but your bloody rules," she objected, heatedly. "You wouldn't accept I might have a valid argument."

"You left me," his voice was distant. "Without anything."

"What _anything_?" Cate frowned, uncertain.

Mycroft inhaled slowly, the smell of her skin was tantalizing. His blood warmed at her nearness. The need to hold her was a physical force.

"You took everything," he murmured, his eyes drifting over her face, her mouth. "Everything was gone: your thoughts in my head, your voice … different things, _gone_."

"You didn't want to listen to me." Cate was indignant. "You didn't want me."

"Didn't _want_ you?" Mycroft's rejection was harsh, his gaze uncompromising. "How the hell did you arrive at _that_ conclusion?"

Closing her eyes, Cate calmed her breathing.

"You treated me as part of the problem," she made her own accusation. "You behaved unspeakably when I questioned your directives."

"It was _dangerous_ , Cate," he shook his head, approaching real anger. "I couldn't tolerate the thought of you in trouble, or worse." Leaning his head back on his shoulders, he groaned in frustration. "Both MI5 and the bin Khalid cohort were playing a lethal game and you chose to walk right into the middle." His eyes fixed on hers. "What did you expect me to do? Wave you merrily onwards?"

"You refused to even let me speak," she looked away. "You gave me no choice of action."

"So you left?" now he really was angry. "You simply fled without explanation?"

"I did not flee!" Cate shouted. "I helped!"

It was Mycroft's turn to look sceptical. "How did you help?"

"I forced the issue and made things happen," Cate retorted. "You couldn't see beyond your damn protocols, but there were two young people I was not about to watch become collateral damage in your political brinkmanship!"

"So you left me?" His voice had softened to an unbearable degree: her stomach twisted at the hurt in it.

"I didn't leave you," Cate insisted. "I got out of your way."

"You weren't _here_ ," Mycroft was vehement. "You weren't _here_ , Cate, _with me_."

"You wouldn't let me _do_ anything," she choked. "I had to take myself out of your way."

It was beyond endurance. Fixing his gaze on a distant point, Mycroft breathed hard trying to ease the constriction of his chest. Silence ticked away the seconds.

"In that case," he said finally, his words clipped, austere. "You took too much." Relaxing the tension in his shoulders and drawing a long breath, Mycroft lifted a finger, moving a wave of dark hair away from her face. "You took something that wasn't yours."

Her anger sheared by the unexpected caress, Cate's troubled eyes fixed on his. "What did I take?"

Hearing the raw uncertainty of the question, Mycroft wrestled the words out.

"You took my heart," his voice so low it was barely heard. Sliding both hands into her hair, he lifted her face to his. "You took my heart, Catie Holmes, and I find I am still in need of it …"

Anything else was lost as Cate launched herself into his arms, pulling herself against him in a fierce passion, her eyes bright. Instantly, he wrapped himself around her so tight, too tight, the pressure making her gasp.

"Don't do that again." His voice rough against her skin. "No more of this, Catie…" he cradled her head, keeping her close to him, his self-control fading as he claimed her lips. _Oh God. That she might not have returned_. Unable to help himself, Mycroft's fingers stroked her hair, her face, holding her still while he kissed her into dizziness, the feel of his hands and his soft groan of need making her cling to him, unsteady on her feet.

Unwilling to tear himself away from her mouth, Mycroft knew there was yet more to be said, but tomorrow would be soon enough. Cate was here; she was safe. She was his. She was still his. After the inexpressible emptiness of recent days, he luxuriated in the feel of her, spontaneous and vibrant, against him. Eventually burying his face in her hair, Mycroft was content to exist in the moment, his arms full of Cate, rocking her slowly, breathing her in. He didn't want to move, didn't want this sensation to stop.

Shakily, Cate looked up at him. "If we're going to be here all night, shall I make some tea?"

Her eyes were dark with emotion. Mycroft smiled and shook his head.

Finding her hand, he led her to the quiet shadows of their bedroom. Though she had been gone only a matter of days, there was a piquant unfamiliarity between them. Undressing each other with ardent kisses and caresses, his fingers reminded themselves of the satin of her skin, his hunger building exponentially as she moved into his hands, craving his touch. Pulling her down beside him on the bed, he held her close, staring through the darkness into the glitter of her eyes, her lips parted and waiting, the heat of her breath on his face. He could feel her shaking; feel the maddening burn of her skin against his, the soft curve of her breasts against the plane of his chest. She was ultimately desirable; infinitely needed. He had never wanted her more.

The round silkiness of her shoulder beguiled him. He bit it slowly, gently, hearing her shuddering intake of breath as she tensed beneath him. Fighting an almost predatory impulse to simply _take_ , Mycroft stroked his fingers down the tender flesh of her neck, along the inside of her arm; he kissed the fragile skin of her wrist, feeling her pulse leap beneath his lips.

"Tell me," he said softly, "that you love me."

Sliding fingers through his hair, directing his face back to hers, Cate's eyes stared up in the darkness.

"I have never loved any man _except_ you," she was breathless. "You are my life."

Closing his eyes as her words seared through him, he swallowed past dryness. He could feel a heartbeat thundering between them but if it were his or Cate's he couldn't say.

"Tell me," he said, his mouth grazing her throat, "that you want me."

Cate moaned as her body trembled a response. He smiled, his lips following the line of her jaw to the sweet place beneath her ear.

"Tell me," he repeated, his mouth irresistible, exacting.

" _Yes_ ," Cate struggled to speak, pleading, urgent. "I want you. _Now_. _Always_ ... _Please Mycroft .._."

Finally bringing his mouth to hers, he felt an engulfing wave of desire seize him as her fingers tangled into his hair, pulling him close. Closer.

" _Always,_ " the word was a moan as her body arched to meet him.

###

Waking in the early daylight against the soft warmth of his chest, Cate stretched luxuriantly, only to feel his arms tighten around her, his fingers pressing against the naked skin of her back and shoulders. She smiled, sliding a hand up to his neck.

"Time we got up?"

"No," Mycroft's voice above her head was quiet and somewhat gravelly. "I prefer we stay here."

"I see." Cate smiled again. "Have you considered the practical issues?"

"Such as?"

"Such as I need to go to the bathroom," she tilted her head and kissed his throat.

"Two minutes," he proposed, his voice business-like. "After which time, I shall institute a nationwide search and rescue."

Smiling and shaking her head, Cate slid out of bed and went into the ensuite. Cleaning her teeth she felt delectably languid. Last night had been pretty amazing. Noticing a series of small bruises on her thigh, Cate touched them with fingertips, realising that was exactly their cause. Lifting her eyebrows in the mirror, she grinned knowingly. Mycroft _had_ been rather keen.

"You're late," Mycroft voiced mild disapproval as he pulled her back against him.

"I'm not exactly wearing a watch," Cate snuggled close. "Besides," she said. "You have yet to tell me why we're not getting up."

"I merely wish to maximise our time together, and so we stay here. _Together_. All day," he announced.

Grinning against his skin, Cate thought aloud. "So, nothing to eat or cups of tea, or anything of that nature?" she asked artlessly.

His fingers, currently drawing arabesques on the back of her neck, paused.

"You may have uncovered the one fatal weakness in my fiendish plan to keep you to myself for an entire day," Mycroft rested his chin on the top of her head and sighed.

Wriggling away until her face was level with his, Cate looked across from her pillow into calm blue eyes. "Idiot."

"My love," his voice was incredibly gentle. Cate felt her toes curl.

"Anyway," she added, "tomorrow is the seventeenth."

" _Yes_?"

"Your birthday."

Mycroft paused, thinking. The seventeenth was indeed his birthday. He'd never before had anyone who'd thought of reminding him.

"And why is the date of note?" he asked.

"Apart from being your birthday?" Cate smiled into his eyes. _Typical Mycroft_.

"Apart from that, yes."

"I have a present for you," she grinned. "Or perhaps I should say _the_ present is my present for you."

Several ideas, instantly dismissed, flew through his thoughts. Only one notion lodged in his brain, but it would be … impossible. He needed more information.

Grinning madly, Cate was delighted she had stumped him. "Check your schedule."

Fishing for his Blackberry, Mycroft flicked to the day's planner, normally filled with meetings and time-zone designated conference calls.

The entire day was blank. Not a single appointment. Had the device malfunctioned? Checking his appointments of yesterday and then forwarding to the eighteenth, he saw each section brim-full. No error, then.

"How did you do this?" he had to know. It was impossible for anyone to do this.

"Like it?" Cate gazed into his eyes. "It was the only thing of which you never seem to have enough."

"And _how_ ," he demanded, his eyes intense. "Was this miracle achieved?"

"I can't tell you," shaking her head, Cate grinned again. "I don't want anyone to get into trouble."

"You _bribed_ my staff?"

"It was hardly bribery, Mycroft," Cate smiled. "I merely inquired if, short of any overt declarations of war or global extinction event, your schedule might possibly be kept clear for the day, and it seems it has."

"You've given me a day." He was nonplussed. "I feel suddenly like a schoolboy skipping Euclid."

"A day of freedom," she smiled again. "Impossible to wrap, though."

"I've never been given anything this useful before," he said, resting his face inches away from hers on the pillow. "How fortuitous," his eyes glinted.

"Do you like it?" her voice was hopeful.

"I love it," Mycroft smiled. "I love you for thinking of it." He blinked. "I love you."

A wash of pleasure followed his words, and Cate lay back, pleased. Examining his features in detail, she lifted a hand to stroke the skin of his face, running fingertips along the thin line across his high forehead and the deeper one between his eyes. Her first thought was that, for a profoundly intellectual man, Mycroft was remarkably sensual; his approach to matters of the flesh both ardent and intuitive. He relished the sense of touch. The second thought was that he frowned too much. He helped carry a monarchy on his shoulders, and there was a price.

Moving closer, she pushed him gently backwards, the better to see him. Stroking the length of his eyebrows with a fingertip, Cate felt the hard direction of their growth and noticed one or two lighter hairs. Blonde or grey? She smiled, trying to imagine him older. His eyes were ultramarine and the cobalts of dusk, blended with the ocean. She felt the electricity of Mycroft's gaze: the intensity of those brilliantine depths was indescribable, like staring into the sun.

Tenderly closing his eyelids with the lightest of touches, she smiled at his sudden intake of breath. Exploring the soft skin around his eyes, Cate noted the increase of laughter-lines. It would be nice to imagine she might have had something to do with the happier ones. The thought arose that she might also be responsible for some of the less pleasant ones, too. She didn't much care for that idea.

Though Mycroft's face owed more to his father than did Sherlock's, the long lines and elegant planes made him a handsome man. His skin was just beginning to have that slight scratchiness of unshaven male, which, combined with the rumple of his hair left him appealingly uncivilized. Drawing her fingertips to the side of his face, Cate stroked along the crest of his right ear. It was surprisingly delicate, but, like the man, understated. And then there was his mouth. Moving unconsciously closer, Cate focused her entire attention on Mycroft's mouth, running a single finger along the line of his upper lip, feeling the contrast between its firm shape and softness. His bottom lip was dryer but still soft. Why did people imagine men's lips to be hard? Mycroft's were incredibly pliable and quite delicious. Yet his mouth was the most severe part of his face, Cate realised. It had hard lines, which was strange since, whatever else this man might be; she had never known him to be deliberately cruel. Imperious, intimidating, even ruthless, yes, but never cruel. The lines of his mouth fascinated her. Leaning closer still, Cate brushed her own lips over their surface and was taken by the impulse to kiss him to a frenzy, the rush of desire made her head spin.

As he saw Cate focus on his face, Mycroft felt himself grow warm. His observation of her study, and of the manifest thoughts behind each of her evaluations, took him to a place of heady and unexpected sensation. He watched each inference cross her face and experienced a growing surge of yearning at the seriousness and gravity of her deliberations. When she closed his eyelids with a soft touch, a pulse throbbed from his chest to all points south, dragging at his breath. At the slightest caress of his ear, lush tingles flickered down his neck. Eyes blinking open in surprise, Mycroft followed Cate's focus intently, watching her face as her fingertip stroked the febrile skin of his lips. When she hovered just above him, her breath barely felt, sudden lust made his brain fizz. How was she so calm? All he could think of was unravelling her. A saint's fortitude would barely keep him sane … Augustine, Daniel, _James_ ...

But her consideration of him was, at least temporarily, over. Cate lay back against her pillows looking flushed, her eyes bright. Mycroft realised it was his turn. Turning back on his side, he trailed his fingers along her jaw. She dazzled him. Sweeping the hair away from her face, he allowed his fingertips to rest on the smooth expanse above Cate's eyes. Faint grooves in the fairness of her skin indicated the desire and ability to argue, and the slightly deeper line above her left eye painted a clear image of scepticism. She had tweaked that eyebrow at him more than a few times. Her hairline was delicately peaked, reminding him of Papety's classical renditions and her skin was of porcelain purity, so smooth, she felt like warm cream. Leaning closer, Mycroft caught the faintest scent of gardenia; her favourite flower. He focused on breathing calmly, stoically resisting the impulse to devour her.

Cate's brows were as soft as everything else about her, the fine, dark curves like mink beneath the stroke of his thumb. He stared down into her eyes; two lucent mirrors of chestnut-brown flecked with amber and green, banded in jade: an unmistakable Celtic heritage. As his focus lingered, her pupils suddenly bloomed outwards like ink in water, the sight making his breath falter and his heart pound. He swallowed convulsively; _Magnus, Peter, Joan …_

Cate's eyelids were as fragile as cobweb and Mycroft used lips instead of fingers to close them. She moaned faintly, stiffening at the touch. He smiled; such physical candour was nigh irresistible and his body twisted with the want of her. Following the map Cate had drawn, Mycroft turned his attention to her ears: almost transparent, fine, elegant structures of sensitive flesh. Lowering his head, he tugged a lobe between his teeth, eliciting another delicious shudder. Spreading a palm over the bones of her face, Cate's skin was so fine it lay like silk beneath his fingers, the clear line of her jaw an invitation to the velvet of her neck and throat. And her mouth. _Ah God; her mouth_.

Still tender from his kisses of last night, Cate's lips were blush-pink. Slightly parted and wildly seductive, Mycroft stroked the ball of his thumb along their softness, the lower one yielding utterly even to that slight pressure. His breath left him entirely. It was more than he could bear. Cradling her head in his hand, and wrapping her back into his arms, he abandoned all virtuous thought.

#

#

# Almost the End #

#

#

Smiling like a besotted teen, Cate sat at the kitchen table sipping tea, trying not to stare at him staring at her. For something to do, she replaced her cup, and caught Mycroft's hand, turning the long fingers over, inspecting the palm with close attention.

"Interesting," she murmured.

" _Interesting_?" He sounded carefree, his light smile apparently a permanent thing.

Cate looked closer, her fingertips flattening his hand against the table. "According to these lines," she said, peering. "You are very caring person, and delight in taking old ladies across the road."

"Whether they want to go or no," Mycroft admitted.

" _And_ ," Cate ignored the interruption. "You were once a nautical man, visiting strange and exotic places, meeting strange and exotic women."

"Does it mention strange and exotic governments?" he asked, curiously. "Or even mildly unusual ones?"

"No," Cate shook her head. "Just places and women," she looked up. "Anything you'd care to tell me about these places?"

"Wouldn't you rather know about the women?" His voice held quiet laughter.

"Not really interested in your other women," she rose above such a blatant attempt at distraction. "Additionally," she added, pointing to a particular line, "this tells me you once scandalised polite society by impersonating the Archbishop of Canterbury at Royal Ascot."

"Lambeth is decent palace, why not?"

"Really?" Cate paused, considering. "I'd have thought Wells was more you."

"Lambeth is slightly more High-Church," Mycroft was vaguely approving. "I prefer religion of the old-fashioned variety." He sipped his tea. "Nice view of the Thames."

" _Hmm_." Cate continued exploring the topography of his hand.

"Anything there about my romantic attachments?" he asked, casually.

Nodding, Cate sighed. "You'll have three wives," she said. "All brilliant and sophisticated, the last of which will be the love of your life," lifting her eyes to his, she frowned. "So what did you do with the first two?"

Laughing, he claimed her fingers. "My turn, I believe." Facing her palm up, Mycroft looked intrigued. " _Ahah._ "

" _Ahah_ , what?"

"I see many things," he murmured cryptically. "Strange things."

She rolled her eyes. Even her feeble attempt had been better than this.

"I see a man," he said, intent on the details of her palm. "This man is absurdly in love with you," his eyes flicked to Cate's and back to her hand. "Though he doesn't think you quite understand his situation," he added.

"This man," she aimed for humour. "I take it I know him? I'd feel awkward not knowing someone who was absurdly in love with me."

"You do know him," Mycroft nodded slowly, his expression earnest. "But you clearly don't know him well enough or you'd realise he cannot tolerate the idea of you being risked in any way." He looked into her eyes. "He can't bear it, Cate," his voice was suddenly quiet and serious.

"This man," she spoke slowly, meeting Mycroft's gaze. "Does he love me for what I am or for what he thinks I am?"

"He's been head over heels in love with you for some time," Mycroft smiled down at her fingers. "I think he knows what you are."

"But you see," Cate placed her other hand on his, "I don't think he grasps what that statement actually means," she said, softly.

"And it means, what, precisely?" Raising both her hands, he kissed the palms of each, sending little shudders to all points of her compass.

" _It means_ , my love," Cate's voice was so gentle he had to strain to hear. "That I am the sum of my parts; good, bad and indifferent, including the irrational, silly and dangerous bits."

There was a pause. "I don't think he'd be entirely happy with that notion," Mycroft held her hands between his, searching her face for understanding.

"Then he'll have to get used to it," she looked sad. "Or he'll end up being hurt, and I couldn't bear _that_."

Pressing her fingers to his mouth, Mycroft considered. Other than Sherlock, he'd never been so deeply connected to another person. That Cate was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and had done so, exceptionally well in fact, for her entire life prior to marrying him, made no difference. Since he'd fallen in love with her, he'd experienced an increasing and overriding need to keep her safe – that this also protected his own happiness was not incidental – but the thought of her in danger _in any way_ , made him feel ill. Yet it was quite clear his desire to protect was never going to sit easily with Cate's appetite for risk. There had to be a middle ground. He solved byzantine problems every day and there must be a way to facilitate agreement between them. An idea occurred. Unusual in this instance perhaps, but if it were to work …

"Is there a potential compromise here?" he asked, carefully.

"What kind of compromise?"

_That which may be thought._

"Can we agree on acceptable risk-bearing activities that may reasonably co-exist with us both?"

Cate narrowed her eyes: this was Mycroft-speak. Care was warranted. "Such as?"

_That which may be said._

"You will not, knowingly," Mycroft's voice switched instantly to the imperative, his voice deliberate, precise. " _Knowingly_ , go anywhere near lethal violence or lethally violent people." He was adamant. "If you somehow find yourself in any such situation," he paused, thinking, "and God knows you seem to all the time, then you will leave. Immediately and without discussion."

"What if I can't leave?" Cate thought of Bilbao.

_That which may be done._

"Then you will do your utmost, _your_ _absolute_ _utmost_ , _Cate_ , to steer clear of trouble, including the avoidance of any antagonisation of bad people." Mycroft was thinking of al Badour.

"What about such things as martial arts, or if I wanted to learn how to shoot, or climb Everest?

_All else was detail._

Less than joyful, Mycroft looked at her assessingly. _Everest? Dear Christ_. He exhaled.

"I can probably deal with your irresponsible attitude to personal danger and the incomprehensible desire to wreak physical havoc upon yourself," he muttered with bad grace. "But I reserve the right to complain about it." Lifting her hand, he inspected the knuckles she'd hurt the first time she'd tried the _kyuk pha_. While there was no longer anything visible, he remembered his feelings from the night of their argument. He squeezed her fingers.

"As long as you don't necessarily expect me to act upon your complaints, that's fine." Cate shrugged. "Your nagging, I can handle."

"I do not nag," Mycroft looked appalled.

"You certainly do," Cate scoffed. "You have a gift for it." Pushing the lock of hair back from his forehead, she grinned. "I now have immense sympathy for Sherlock."

"Do we have an agreement?" still stroking her knuckles, he looked at her from under his brows.

_A Protocol._

"You want me to avoid people and things I know to be lethally violent, you're also asking me not to make any bad situation worse, but you're okay with me being involved in activities which may be dangerous?"

_Of three parts. The Trivium._

Mycroft considered. While imperfect, it was at least a basis of agreement which might later be amended. Possibly extended. "Yes," he said.

"Then what am I to do with you?" Cate smiled innocently. "You have to be one of the most dangerous people I'll ever meet."

Mycroft scowled. Unfortunately, she was correct. Caught in his own scheme, he'd have to extemporise.

"I don't count," assuming a righteous expression, his words were quietly confident. "I'm your husband."

"How can you not count?" Cate was laughing. "You're lethally violent, admit it."

"Not to you," his virtuous look slipped into something more comfortable. "Although I confess to dangerous feelings where you're concerned."

"I rather like that idea," she looked at him. "How dangerous?"

Mycroft stood, smiling. He held out a hand. "Apparently I have an entire day to show you."

#

#

THE END

#

**NEW STORY … Mycroft Holmes in Excelsis**

A romance. Christmas, biological warfare, kidnapping, family secrets and a Tango. A Cate and Mycroft story.

#


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